Dinner with My Future Self

I woke up on a Wednesday morning to find an email in my inbox with the subject line:

Dinner Reservation Confirmed – With Yourself

At first, I thought it was spam. I get plenty of random emails—discounts I never signed up for, phishing attempts, Nigerian princes still stuck in 2005. But this one was oddly specific.

The sender was [email protected]. No profile picture, no marketing fluff. Just a single message:

Ethan,

You’ve been booked for dinner with your future self.

Date: Tonight, 7:30 PM

Location: Le Rêve, Main Street

Table: 6

You’ll recognize me.

Bring nothing but questions.

Don’t be late.

My first thought? This was either some elaborate prank by my friends—or the opening scene of a horror movie.

For most of the morning, I tried to ignore it. I had real-world problems: overdue bills, a boss breathing down my neck, and a creeping sense that my life was moving sideways instead of forward.

But by lunchtime, curiosity had become a knot in my stomach.

If it was a prank, I could call someone out. If it wasn’t… well, I had always said I’d do anything to know how my life turns out.

By 7:00 PM, I was standing outside Le Rêve, a dimly lit French restaurant with white tablecloths and the smell of garlic drifting into the street. I’d never been inside before—it was the kind of place you saved for anniversaries or winning the lottery.

The hostess didn’t even ask for my name. She smiled, as if she’d been expecting me, and led me straight to Table 6.

And there he was.

Me.

Ten, maybe twelve years older. His hair had a few streaks of gray at the temples. His face had more lines, but not the kind that come from smiling.

He didn’t look surprised to see me.

“Ethan,” he said, standing to shake my hand. “On time. Good.”

It was my voice, but lower. More measured.

I sat down, heart pounding in my ears. “Okay, I’m just going to say it—what the hell is this?”

He gave a small smile. “Exactly what the email said. Dinner with your future self. Don’t worry about how. Focus on why.”

A waiter appeared and poured us both glasses of red wine without asking. My older self waited until he left before leaning in.

“There are rules,” he said. “First, you can ask me anything—past, present, or future. Second, I can’t tell you certain things. If I do, it… changes outcomes.”

“So you can’t tell me if I’m rich or poor, dead or alive in ten years?”

“I can’t tell you if you’re alive,” he corrected. “But I can tell you what matters.”

His eyes were sharp—calm, but holding something back.

We ordered food—coq au vin for both of us, because apparently my tastes hadn’t changed—and I dove straight in.

“Do I ever get married?”

He smiled faintly. “Yes. And no.”

I frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can give you without ruining it. Relationships… they’re not the finish line you think they are. They’re more like weather. Sometimes sunny. Sometimes storms.”

I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or intrigued. “Do I still work at Horizon Tech?”

He sipped his wine. “Not for long. And when you leave, it will feel like a mistake—until it doesn’t.”

Halfway through dinner, the conversation shifted. He stopped giving vague, mystical answers and leaned in closer.

“There’s something you need to avoid, Ethan. In about six weeks, you’ll get an offer. It will seem like everything you’ve been waiting for—more money, more recognition. If you take it, you will spend years regretting it.”

“What kind of offer?”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you details. Just… when it comes, remember this feeling you have right now. That mix of hope and fear. Choose the fear.”

To make his point, he told me a story—not about my future, but about his past.

He described a night in a hotel room in Berlin, alone, staring at the ceiling fan turning slowly above him. He’d just signed a contract—one that had seemed like a golden ticket. But in that quiet, he realized he’d traded time for money, relationships for status.

“That night,” he said, “I ordered room service just so I could hear another human voice. And I remember thinking, ‘This is what winning feels like?’”

His eyes glistened. And for the first time, I realized—he wasn’t here to show me how great life could be. He was here to stop me from making his mistakes.

The food arrived, but my appetite had vanished.

I asked him about Mom. He looked away, cleared his throat, and said only, “Make more time for her. You’ll understand why.”

I asked him if I ever wrote that novel I’d been thinking about for years. His smile widened—this time genuinely. “Yes. And it’s not the book you think you’re going to write. But it changes everything.”

The way he said it made me believe him.

When dessert came—a chocolate soufflé we apparently both loved—he checked his watch. “Time’s almost up.”

I laughed nervously. “What happens now? Do you vanish in a puff of smoke?”

He smirked. “Something like that. But before I go—one last thing.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. On it, in my handwriting, were the words: Open in 2035.

“What’s in it?” I asked.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t open it at the right time.”

He stood, shook my hand again, and whispered, “You’re going to be okay, Ethan. Even when it doesn’t feel like it.”

And then he walked out.

I sat there for a long time, envelope in hand, staring at the empty chair across from me. The waiter came by to clear the plates and hesitated.

“Your brother left already?”

I froze. “That wasn’t my brother.”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Strange. You two even signed the check the same way.”

When I finally stepped outside, the street was empty. No sign of him. Just the faint scent of the wine we’d shared still lingering in my mind.

And the one question I still can’t answer:

If that really was my future self—why did he look so afraid when I asked him about next year?