That first day was spent revelling in awe as we looked at ourselves from what we both agreed was another dimension.
"I have been," I began explaining, "hearing voices ever since I was a toddler. I believed then it was my invisible twin brother until I realized much later the voice was you, another me, from some other place."
They replied, "When I woke up next to you it was like a dream had somehow turned into reality. I know you have been dreaming about this too. We are the one person. What I dream, you dream."
I had always wondered what his life would be like if he had made different choices or taken different paths. Now, standing face to face with his alternate self, he finally had the chance to find out.
"You first," I said.
"What difference does it make?" answered the other me. "This room is exactly the same. My clothes are here. Everything is exactly the same as I left them before went to sleep. Nothing is different from the time I went dosing off. Our timelines are the same. Unless you see anything that's changed."
"You're assuming I'm in your timeline."
"Am I in yours?"
"I see no point of divergence."
"Neither do I."
Our two selves spent hours talking about our lives and experiences, comparing notes on everything from our careers to our relationships. We discovered that we were more alike than we had ever imagined, despite living in different dimensions. Our memories were exactly the same.
As the second night wore on, the other me realized, "I think it is time for you to return home. I'm never going to forget this experience and that it has changed me forever, but this can't go on. How can this work?"
"Can you go back?" I ask.
"No. I can't see how."
"Then how am I supposed to go? Which one of us is in the wrong dimension?"
"Maybe, this is not an inter-dimensional thing. Maybe it's a mental illness?"
"I've thought about that. Been thinking of it the whole time."
"Me too," I confess.
"No, shit."
Madness would be a relief. It would make sense. The voices in my head. The premonitions. The lucid dreams. "Let's test this."
"How?"
By morning, I directed my other self out to the kitchen. I put water to boil and opened the refrigerator. "Go get milk."
"That would prove what?"
"From the neighbour."
The other me seemed to understand and headed out. By the time I set a pair of cups and saucers, mix the instant coffee with hot water, and let it cool, my doppelganger returned with a bottle of milk.
After we pour in the milk, we both sit and take a sip.
"Return the milk," said my other self. "She offered pancakes."
I understood I needed to reciprocate the motion, so I took another sip, picked up the bottle and headed out of my apartment to the retired nurse who lived directly underneath me.
She opened her door and smiled, holding the plate of freshly fried pancakes. "I insist," she said.
I swapped the milk for the plate and thanked her. When I headed back and confronted my other self with the goods, they were not impressed.
