Echoes of a Life Not Lived

When Olivia Harper opened her eyes, everything felt wrong.

The ceiling was not hers. It was smooth and white instead of the familiar cracked plaster of her tiny apartment. The morning light that spilled in was too soft, filtered through elegant linen curtains—not the threadbare shades she remembered. And the bed… was enormous. King-sized. Crisp linen sheets. Too clean.

She bolted upright.

The room was silent but strangely warm. There were framed paintings on the walls. A vanity mirror. A dresser topped with perfume bottles that looked expensive. And beside her, on the nightstand, a phone she didn’t recognize buzzed with a message:

**“Good morning, sweetheart. Meeting at 9. Breakfast in the kitchen. Love you — M.”**

She didn’t know an M.

The phone had her face as the lock screen. A more polished version—makeup, styled hair, even a necklace she didn’t own. But it was her.

Or... a version of her.

Olivia stumbled to the mirror. Staring back was someone she almost didn’t recognize. Her hair was longer, curled. Her nails were painted a soft nude. And her eyes—usually tired and underslept—looked calm.

She whispered to the reflection, “What the hell is happening?”

---

The house—or rather, the sleek, modern townhouse—was filled with light and silence. The kitchen smelled of coffee. A robotic assistant hummed softly as it scrambled eggs.

On the marble counter was a planner with her name: **Dr. Olivia Harper, Clinical Psychologist**.

Psychologist? She was a barista.

Or at least she had been yesterday. A tired, overworked barista with student loan debt and a box fan for air conditioning.

Now? She was someone else.

And yet... still her.

She spent the next hour unraveling the puzzle. The degrees on the wall were real. Her handwriting. Her old dream job. Even her dog—Benny, the Labrador she never got to adopt—was snoozing on a plush rug.

And then she found the photo album.

Images of her and a man named Marcus. Tall, charming, with eyes that seemed to know her soul. They looked happy. Truly. Laughing on beaches. Kissing under fairy lights. At their wedding.

A wedding she never had.

She should have been terrified. But all she felt was... ache.

---

That night, she wandered outside. The city lights shimmered like they did in her real world, but the streets were cleaner. The air softer. Even the moon looked kinder.

A man bumped into her.

“Liv? Are you okay?”

It was him. Marcus.

He looked at her with such concern—like he’d held her tears before, like he knew every version of her.

“I just needed some air,” she murmured.

He smiled. “Same old Olivia. Overthinking everything.”

He kissed her forehead. “Let’s go home.”

And just like that, she let him hold her hand.

---

Days turned to weeks.

She lived this life. The one she always dreamed about. A fulfilling career. A man who adored her. A quiet confidence she never knew she had. Clients who looked up to her. A team that respected her.

Sometimes, she’d cry in the shower. Not from sadness—but the overwhelming fear that this wasn’t real. That one morning, she’d wake up back in her cold apartment, with her broken microwave and unfinished degree.

But each day, the dream felt more like home.

Until the mirror cracked.

Literally.

She woke one morning to find a fracture down the center of the vanity mirror. Thin as a thread, but deep.

That night, she had a dream—no, a memory.

Of standing in the rain. Of screaming. Of a car speeding away. And of a voice—her own—whispering, “I wish I had chosen differently.”

The next morning, the crack was longer.

And Marcus was quieter.

---

She began to see them—glimpses.

At the coffee shop window, she saw her old self wiping tables, hair in a messy bun. On a street corner, she saw her mother—who had died three years ago—smiling, alive.

Reality was bleeding.

She finally broke down.

“Marcus,” she whispered, clutching his hand. “Do you ever feel like... this isn’t our life?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Like we made a different choice. In another world. And this—this is just... an echo.”

He looked at her for a long time. “Olivia... sometimes, I think you’re not all here. Like part of you is somewhere else.”

She sobbed.

Because she was.

---

That night, she found the truth.

The crack had spread across the wall. And through it—like light through a curtain—she saw her old life.

She was in a hospital bed.

Machines beeped.

She was in a coma.

And this world? The perfect one? It was in her mind.

Created from every regret. Every “what if.”

The mirror shimmered.

She stood before it. One version of her—confident, loved, successful—looked back.

“I want to stay,” she whispered.

But something inside her knew: this wasn’t living.

It was longing.

She touched the mirror.

And woke up.

---

The hospital room was cold. Bleach and metal.

Her mother was there. Holding her hand.

She was older. Gray hair. Tearful eyes.

“Olivia?” she whispered. “Baby, you're back.”

Tears streamed down Olivia’s face.

She had returned.

To the real world.

To pain. Loss. Imperfection.

But also… possibility.

---

A year later, she walked past a bookstore and saw him.

Marcus.

Different. Not married to her. Not even knowing her.

But real.

She smiled.

And walked on.

Because sometimes, the life you wanted is the one you choose to build.

Not dream.

---

**The End**