Drabble and a half.
Impostor
He's deadly afraid of slipping up.
He remembers, clings to all the small details. Push down door-handles, unless they're knobs, in which case turn; one foot in front of the other, greet the elderly lady who lives next door, don't laugh at your own wounds, school is this way, Sundays are free. Keep a low profile, act natural but don't let instinct guide you from fear of stumbling on one of the things you lost.
(Can't ask for help and attract attention or they'll guess–)
Because what right does he have – no, what reality is there to the statement that he is Ryou Bakura? When he exists so rarely, will not the conventions of daily life slip through his fingers and his ignorance expose him as a fraud? What if they pry the Ring from their fingers and he is the one to go with it, a paper-thin, discarded mask?