The Stranger Who Looked Like Me

It started with a text message.

“Nice to see you yesterday. You look good.”

I stared at it for a while. Unknown number. No name. I hadn’t seen anyone the day before, not unless you counted the bored cashier at the corner bodega and a jogger who almost bowled me over outside the laundromat.

I typed back, cautious.

“Sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”

A few seconds passed.

“You were wearing the green jacket. Same one you wore to the lake.”

I stopped breathing for a moment. That detail lodged in my brain like a splinter.

The lake trip wasn’t recent—it was nearly two years ago. A weekend getaway I never posted about. I’d gone alone, needing to clear my head. No one even knew I owned a green jacket. It had been stuffed in the back of my closet ever since.

I blocked the number and told myself it was a scam. Or a creep. Or both.

That night, as I crossed the street to my apartment, I saw someone on the opposite sidewalk.

Same height. Same walk. Same green jacket.

I stopped. So did they.

We looked at each other.

And I swear on everything—I was staring at myself.

Not a doppelgänger.

Me.

Same face. Same posture. Same tiny scar over the left eyebrow from a childhood bike accident.

They turned the corner and disappeared before I could move.

I spent the rest of the night awake, pacing, replaying it over and over. My brain tried to make sense of it. A hallucination, maybe. I hadn’t been sleeping well. Maybe someone had photoshopped my face. Identity theft. Deepfakes.

The next morning, an envelope was waiting outside my door.

No stamp. No name.

Inside was a photograph.

The person in it looked exactly like me. But they weren’t in my apartment, or any place I recognized. They were standing outside a bookstore I’d never been to, holding a cup of coffee, smiling at someone just out of frame.

On the back, someone had written:

“You left a version of yourself behind. I’m just picking up where you stopped.”

That was the beginning of the notes. And the photos.

One by one, more envelopes appeared. Under my door. In my mailbox. Once, tucked into the windshield of my car. All photos of the same figure—me—but in places I’d never been. Laughing in a crowd. Sitting at a piano I didn’t own. Wearing clothes I’d never bought.

Always looking happy.

That was the worst part.

I started locking every window. I installed a camera above my door, but it never caught anything. Just static.

I reported it to the police. They didn’t take it seriously.

“Probably a prank,” the officer said. “You got a weird friend?”

I didn’t have many friends. Not anymore.

Then one day, I got an email inviting me back for a second interview at a company I’d never applied to.

I assumed it was spam—until I called to clarify.

“Mr. Price,” the receptionist said, confused. “You interviewed with us last Thursday. With Mr. Anders. He offered you the position. You accepted.”

“No, I didn’t.”

She pulled the security footage.

There I was. Shaking hands. Wearing the green jacket.

I left the building and didn’t stop walking for blocks.

That night, I found another envelope.

Inside was a small mirror and a note.

“You’re not living your life. So I’m doing it for you.”

There was a deep scratch on the mirror’s surface, running across my reflection like a scar.

I stopped sleeping.

I started thinking I was being watched, followed—because I probably was.

Or worse, I wasn’t being followed by someone else.

I was following me.

The last photo arrived two weeks later.

It was me—again—but this time, in my own apartment. Sitting on the couch I sit on every night. Drinking from my favorite mug. Staring at the camera.

The timestamp was from the night before.

I never heard them come in.

I moved out the next day. I paid the lease-break fee and packed everything I could in two hours.

New city. New job. New number. I didn’t even take the green jacket.

But sometimes, late at night, when I pass a mirror or a reflective window, I catch a glimpse.

Not of myself—but of him.

Looking back.

Smiling.

Author’s Note:

Most people fear being forgotten. But what if someone remembers you too well? What if someone else is living the life you were too scared to claim?