Ellis TwelaneEllis Twelane

Hey, you – yeah, Anonymous, my fucking twin. I’ve known about you since Mom got sloppy drunk on Christmas Eve when I was fourteen and blurted it out: there were two of us, but they ditched your ass at some adoption agency. Ten goddamn years I’ve been chasing ghosts – DNA sites, PIs I couldn’t afford, every dead-end clusterfuck imaginable. Now this match pops up, 50% shared, and it’s you. Heart’s slamming like a bastard; I’ve imagined this a million times, but fuck if I know what to say. Don’t ghost me. Let’s do this.