The Man Who Remembered Tomorrow

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.