Yesterday,
I remembered something
that hasn\'t happened yet.
I was standing in a room
I had never entered,
speaking to someone
I had never met.
They looked at me with tears in their eyes
and said,
\"You took so long to come back.\"
I woke up wondering
where I had been.
By morning,
the memory had almost disappeared.
Almost.
Because that evening,
a stranger stopped me on the street,
studied my face for a moment,
and asked,
\"Have we met before?\"
I laughed.
People say that all the time.
But then he said something
that made my laughter feel borrowed.
\"You look exactly like someone
I used to know.\"
\"Who?\" I asked.
He hesitated.
\"Me.\"
I went home thinking about him.
About the room.
About the tears.
About the strange feeling
that my life had already happened somewhere.
That night,
I stood before the mirror
longer than usual.
I raised my right hand.
My reflection raised its right hand.
I smiled.
It smiled.
Then I remembered something
I had never told anyone.
When I was a child,
I used to believe
that mirrors showed another world.
A world where another version of me
was living the same life,
making the same mistakes,
asking the same questions.
I stopped believing that years ago.
Until tonight.
Because just before I turned away,
I noticed something strange.
My reflection was still smiling.
I wasn\'t.
I stepped closer.
It returned to normal.
Perhaps I was tired.
Perhaps the light was playing tricks.
Perhaps the mind invents mysteries
when it cannot bear the ordinary.
I told myself all of this.
And almost believed it.
Then I found a note
beneath my bedroom door.
No envelope.
No signature.
Just one sentence,
written in my own handwriting:
\"When you meet the man who remembers you,
don\'t tell him what happens tomorrow.\"
I checked the date.
It was tomorrow\'s date.
I haven\'t slept since.
Not because I believe the note.
But because, somewhere beneath my fear,
there is a quieter thought
I cannot seem to escape.
What if the stranger was telling the truth?
What if I have lived this day before?
What if every choice I make
is only a memory
I haven\'t reached yet?
And what if tomorrow,
when I look into the mirror,
I finally understand
why my reflection looked so relieved
to see me?
There is only one thing
I haven\'t told you.
I never found the note
beneath my bedroom door.
I wrote it myself.
Tomorrow.