Somewhere Out There

I’ve always liked the idea that somewhere out there is someone who looks exactly like me. Not a twin—I don’t have a twin—but some random person in another city who has my face, my hair, my particular way of standing. Maybe they’re a better version. Maybe they’re worse. Doesn’t matter. There’s comfort in it.

The versions I’ve heard usually go the same way. You’re at a party, someone taps your shoulder, says they know your twin. Or you’re walking through a crowd and someone stops you—they swear they know you from somewhere, but you know you’ve never met. The photos come out. The laughs. Maybe you exchange numbers. Maybe it ends there. But you’ve still met yourself, in a way.

I haven’t encountered mine yet. But I keep half-expecting it—some moment in a crowd where I’ll catch eyes with someone and just know. We’ll both freeze. We’ll both be thinking the same thing. What happens then? Do you become friends? Do you feel like you’re betraying yourself somehow? Or is it just a weird story to tell at parties forever?

I think I’d want to stay in touch. Not out of some weird obsession, but because that person would understand something about me that almost no one else could. What it’s like to move through the world in this particular body, with this particular face. That’s worth knowing someone for.