There are worlds that don’t exist on maps, yet they feel more familiar than the streets we walk every day. I discovered mine not through a spaceship or a portal, but in a moment of silence between thoughts—when reality briefly forgot to stay consistent.
In that space, the sky didn’t behave like sky. It folded like fabric under unseen hands, revealing layers of other skies beneath it. Each one held a different version of the same truth: that existence is not singular, but overlapping.
I met versions of myself there. Some were older, some younger, some made of light instead of flesh. One of them asked me a question I still can’t answer clearly:
“If you could remember every life you’ve ever lived, would you still trust this one?”
Before I could respond, the world flickered again. The moment collapsed like a dream refusing to be documented, and I was back—sitting still, breathing normally, pretending nothing had happened.
But something had changed.
Now I notice the fractures. The subtle glitches in reality. The sense that everything is slightly delayed, like I’m always half a second away from a truer version of existence.
And sometimes, when the night is quiet enough, I swear I can hear the other worlds breathing back.
Images are AI generated ✨
