I met myself last Thursday.
Not in a dream. Not in a photo. In my bathroom mirror at midnight
I was brushing my teeth when the reflection blinked 2 seconds after I did. Then she smiled. I didn’t.
She mouthed 3 words: "You owe me."
I found the rules carved into my bathroom tile the next morning. Small, like someone used a fingernail:
Rule 1: Every time you see your parallel self, she takes 1 year from your lifespan.
Rule 2: Every time she speaks, she takes 5 years.
Rule 3: If you touch the mirror when she’s on the other side, you switch places. Forever.
I laughed. Then I counted my gray hairs. I’m 28. I have 12 new ones since Thursday.
Her name is Ada. Same as me. But her Ada made different choices.
In her world, she said yes to the scholarship. Married at 24. Two kids. A house with yellow walls.
In my world, I said no. Chose hustle over family. Freelance over stability. Freedom over roots.
She showed me her life through the mirror like a movie trailer. Warm kitchen. Kids laughing. A husband who brings her coffee every morning.
Then she showed me mine: Empty apartment. Cold coffee. Laptop glow at 2am.
"You chose wrong," she whispered. That was 5 years gone. I felt it leave my body. Like cold air escaping.
Last night Ada looked sick. Older. Her yellow house was cracked. Kids were gone from the background.
"You’re killing me," she said. Voice breaking. That cost her 5 more years. Now I’m down 11 years total.
She explained: In her timeline, she’s 43 and dying of cancer. In my timeline, I’m 28 and healthy.
The multiverse balances it. Her pain feeds my health. My loneliness feeds her family.
"We’re not parallel," she cried. "We’re parasites. And the host with less time has to die first."
If I live to 80, she dies at 43. If she dies at 43, I get to live her years.
This morning the mirror cracked. Just a hairline. Ada pressed her palm to it from her side.
"Touch it," she begged. "Switch with me. I’ll raise your kids. Love your husband. Die at 43 instead of you. You get my 40 extra years. No more 2am laptop. No more empty bed."
Her hand was warm. Mine was cold.
If I touch it, she lives my life and dies young. I live hers and get 40 more years.
But what happens to the Ada in her world? Does she just... end?
Hive SciFi Multiverse family, I need your answer:*
If your parallel self offered to swap lives with you - her family + 40 years for your freedom + early death... would you touch the mirror?
I haven’t decided yet. But the crack is spreading. And Ada’s hand is still on the glass.
Image is generated
