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.
-
Author:
Dev parth (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 24th, 2026 04:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments5
good write, much enjoyed
Thank you so much! I'm really glad you enjoyed the piece.
most welcome
That doesn’t make sense don’t understand what your trying to say
Thanks for reading! The poem explores a surreal paradox where the narrator encounters a future version of himself. It is intentionally designed to feel a bit mysterious, disorienting, and open to interpretation.
Ok well I did not understand it … and I don’t know what you mean by surreal paradox
Oh right
I didn’t understand it
Oh right
Sounded bit dark
Open to interpretation ?
Ok
Such a good story with a meaning it was like a story from the twilight zone. Nicely penned Dev
Thank you! The Twilight Zone is exactly the kind of eerie, thought-provoking atmosphere I was aiming for with this concept.
You are most welcome Dev this one was eerie indeed. Nicely done
The topic could offer some interesting ideas to explore...
I feel like this has potential to a possible short story, I enjoyed it. Nice job :))
Thank you! I appreciate the encouragement. Expanding this narrative loop into a full short story is a great idea that I might just have to pursue.
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