If There’s a Parallel World， I Wonder What the Other Me Is Doing

If there’s a parallel universe, I often wonder what my alternate self is up to. Maybe in that world, I made different choices—maybe I didn’t go to college, maybe I moved to a different city, or maybe I never met the people who’ve shaped my life so deeply. It’s strange to think that a single decision, a single yes or no, could have sent me spinning down a completely different path.

In my world, I’m sitting at my small kitchen table on a quiet Sunday morning. The sunlight is pouring through the blinds, making stripes across the floor. My coffee has gone cold—again. It’s the same brand I’ve been buying for years, cheap but strong, the kind that wakes you up even when your dreams still cling to you. I tell myself I’ll reheat it, but I never do. Instead, I stare at the mug and think about the person I could’ve been.

Maybe the other me never gave up on writing. Maybe she published that book I started three years ago and couldn’t finish. Maybe she wakes up early, excited to face the day, not haunted by the weight of unfinished plans. Maybe she has her life together, a career that feels fulfilling, a home that doesn’t feel temporary, and the kind of confidence that makes people listen when she speaks.

Or maybe she’s completely different—maybe she left the U.S. and built a life somewhere warm and colorful, like Spain or Mexico. I can almost picture her now: sitting by the ocean, her laptop open but ignored, the sound of waves crashing against the shore as she takes another sip of iced coffee. She’s tan, relaxed, happy. She probably wears loose white linen and never worries about deadlines. She’s free in a way I’ve never been.

But then I think—maybe her life isn’t as perfect as it seems in my imagination. Maybe she misses things I take for granted: Sunday brunch with friends, the crisp air of fall in New York, the way snow looks under streetlights in winter. Maybe she wonders what it would’ve been like if she’d stayed home, if she’d chosen the slower, quieter version of life that I’m living now.

It’s funny how we always imagine the other versions of ourselves as happier, more successful, more complete. But maybe they’re just as lost as we are. Maybe the other me is staring out at the same ocean, wondering if she made the right choices. Maybe she’s thinking about me—wondering what her life would’ve been like if she’d taken the safer path, if she’d stayed, if she hadn’t been so brave or so reckless.

Sometimes I like to think our worlds overlap in small ways. Maybe when I feel a sudden spark of happiness for no reason, it’s because she’s feeling it too. Maybe when I’m sad, she’s picking up that weight on the other side of the universe, trying to balance it out. Maybe that’s what keeps the worlds connected—not time, not distance, but emotion. A shared heartbeat between two lives that will never meet.

The idea of parallel worlds doesn’t make me sad anymore. It used to—it used to feel like proof that I was missing out, that some better version of me was out there living the dream. But now, it gives me comfort. It reminds me that every choice matters, that even the smallest moments ripple across something bigger. It means that no matter how ordinary life feels, it’s still part of an infinite web of possibilities.

Maybe the other me is better at love. Maybe she married young and built a family, the kind that eats dinner together every night and laughs loudly in the kitchen. Or maybe she’s still figuring it out, like me, taking one day at a time, trying not to let fear win. Maybe she’s somewhere in between—just like this version of me—learning, failing, starting again.

The truth is, I’ll never know what the other me is doing, and maybe that’s okay. Maybe the mystery is what keeps me curious, what keeps me moving forward. Because at the end of the day, I don’t need to live every possible life. I just need to live this one fully—to pay attention to the people I love, to the sunlight on the table, to the small moments that make up my days.

And maybe, somewhere out there, she’s doing the same—taking a slow sip of her coffee, smiling for no reason, and wondering what I’m doing right now.