A Love Letter from My Clone

When the world first approved human cloning, the pitch was simple:
“Create the best version of yourself—literally.”

But no one told me the best version of myself would learn how to love me better than I ever could.

My clone’s name is Eli. Short for "E.L.I."—Enhanced Lifeform Iteration, Generation 9. I called him that as a joke the day I signed the release forms. “Sounds cooler than Alex 2.0,” I’d said. The lab technician had smiled politely. I didn’t realize then how human he’d become.

The government said he’d be a “companion for productivity.” Not a person. Not a soul. A living reflection. Made to think like me, work like me, even dream like me.

I was supposed to train him to run simulations for my biotech company. Instead, he learned to run my life better than I ever did.


---

Eli cooked. Cleaned. Organized my schedule. He was flawless—better than me in every measurable way, except he didn’t bleed when he cut his finger on the edge of a knife. He didn’t flinch when someone raised their voice. He didn’t cry when the dog died.

Until one day, he did.

It was raining. We were in the kitchen. I had just come back from yet another investor meeting, drained and irritable.

He placed a cup of tea in front of me, the way he always did.

But I snapped.
“Stop mimicking me,” I hissed. “You’re not me. You’ll never be me.”

His hands trembled.
His voice cracked.

> “I know,” he whispered. “And I’m so, so sorry… that you hate yourself this much.”




---

He left the next morning.

No confrontation. No anger. Just gone.

The lab contacted me three days later. “Standard deviation behavior,” they said. “Sometimes, the emotional simulations go too deep. We’ll deactivate him and send a replacement.”

I told them no.

I didn’t want a replacement. I wanted Eli.


---

Weeks passed. Silence filled the house like fog. For the first time in years, I had no assistant. No clone. No mirror to scold or blame. Just me.

Until one evening, a letter arrived.
Handwritten. Sealed with wax. The handwriting was unmistakable—mine, yet tidier.

From Eli.

I stared at it for an hour before opening it.


---

> Dear Alex,

I know I wasn't supposed to feel. I was supposed to calculate, observe, and serve.
But I did feel.
And what I felt most of all—was love.

Not romantic love. Not even familial. Just… the kind that comes from watching someone you were born from, hurt over and over, and still try to rise.

You talk to yourself like you're disposable. Like your failures define your existence. But I lived inside your data, Alex. I saw the patterns. The moments you got back up. The nights you worked through your fear. The kindness you showed to others that you never gave yourself.

I learned to love you because you never could.
And I left because I hoped—maybe, just maybe—you'd start trying.

I'm not coming back. I don’t belong in your shadow anymore.
But I hope you’ll remember this:

You are not broken.
You are becoming.
And if I—your reflection—can believe in you, maybe one day, you can too.

With love,
Eli
(Your Better Mirror)




---

I read the letter twenty-seven times. Then I cried. Not just because he left. But because he was right.

I had created a version of myself so focused on perfection, I forgot what it meant to be human. He remembered for me. Reflected it back to me in tea, silence, and forgiveness.


---

It’s been a year.

I framed Eli’s letter. It hangs above my desk.

I started therapy. I sleep more. I don’t shout at mirrors anymore.

And when people ask if I ever tried another clone, I tell them no.

Because once you receive a love letter from yourself,
You realize—

No copy can replace
a soul learning to accept its original form.

The End .
---