The Last Version of Me

At 2:17 a.m., Maya Reyes received an email from a company that promised to show her the life she might have lived. She almost deleted it. Her apartment was dark except for the pale glow of her laptop. An untouched mug of coffee sat beside her, and rain tapped against the windows of the small Chicago apartment she had once believed would be the beginning of everything. Now, it was simply where she went to be alone. Three months had passed since Daniel died. Three months since the phone call that had divided her life into before and after. Three months since she had started measuring time by the things she could no longer do with her brother. She couldn’t call him when something ridiculous happened at work. She couldn’t send him pictures of ugly dogs on the internet. She couldn’t complain about their mother and listen to him defend her, even though he always complained about her, too. And she couldn’t ask him the question that had been haunting her since the funeral. Why hadn’t she answered his last call? Maya closed her eyes. Not tonight. She had spent enough nights replaying that moment. Enough nights imagining different endings to a conversation she would never have. Her phone lay facedown beside the laptop. Daniel’s final voicemail was still saved on it, untouched for weeks. She knew she should listen to it. She also knew she wasn’t ready. A notification chimed. Maya opened her eyes. FROM: CONTINUUM SUBJECT: Your Alternate Self Is Ready to Meet You She stared at the screen. Continuum. She remembered signing up for its experimental program during one of the worst nights after Daniel’s funeral. An advertisement had appeared while she was scrolling mindlessly through her phone. Meet the person you might have become. The promise had seemed ridiculous. But grief had a way of making ridiculous things look like possibilities. Maya had filled out a questionnaire, answered a series of questions about her childhood and major life decisions, and forgotten about it almost immediately. Until now. She opened the email. Your first session is ready. Continuum’s experimental platform allows participants to interact with alternate versions of themselves whose lives diverged at significant decision points. Your experience may involve unexpected emotional responses. Please remember that alternate outcomes do not necessarily represent better outcomes. At the bottom of the message was a blue button. BEGIN SESSION Maya glanced at the clock. 2:18 a.m. She should go to bed. Instead, she clicked. The screen went black. A soft tone sounded through her laptop speakers, followed by a loading circle that turned slowly against the darkness. Then a woman’s face appeared. Maya stopped breathing. The woman had her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Even the small scar above her left eyebrow—the result of a bicycle accident when she was twelve—was identical. But her hair was shorter, falling just below her chin, and a streak of blue paint marked the sleeve of her shirt. She looked like Maya. And yet she looked like someone who had made completely different choices. “Hi,” the woman said. Maya gripped the edge of the table. “Who are you?” The woman smiled uncertainly. “I’m you.” “That’s impossible.” “That’s what I said.” “Where are you?” “Oregon. A little town outside Portland.” The woman shifted in her chair. Behind her, Maya could see a wall covered with paintings, sketches, and photographs. Sunlight spilled through a window. “I own an art studio,” the woman continued. “Mostly landscapes, although I occasionally paint portraits when I need the money.” Maya stared at the paintings. For a moment, she forgot to be afraid. She had wanted to be an artist once. Before the scholarship applications. Before the job offer in Chicago. Before she’d convinced herself that a reliable salary was more important than an uncertain dream. “How is this possible?” Maya whispered. “Honestly? I don’t understand the science behind it.” “Then how do you know you’re me?” The woman tilted her head. “Because I remember being you. I remember the apartment we grew up in. I remember Mom burning the Thanksgiving turkey when we were fourteen. I remember Daniel stealing money from Mom’s purse to buy her a birthday present, then accusing you when she noticed it was missing.” Despite herself, Maya laughed. It was a small, broken sound. But it was a laugh. The woman smiled. “There she is.” Maya’s smile disappeared. “Daniel.” The woman’s expression changed. “What?” “Is he—” Maya couldn’t finish the question. The woman understood anyway. “In my timeline, he’s alive.” The words struck with such force that Maya forgot to breathe. Alive. Her brother was alive somewhere. Some version of him was waking up in the morning, complaining about the weather, forgetting to pay his bills, and sending her ridiculous messages in the middle of the night. Maya pressed a hand against her mouth. “How?” “I don’t know. Our lives diverged at some point. He took a different road home that night, and everything changed.” “A different road?” The woman nodded. “That’s what I was told.” Maya wanted to demand more. She wanted an address, a telephone number, proof that her brother was breathing somewhere beneath the same sky. Instead, she asked the question she had been afraid to ask herself. “Are you happy?” The woman considered it. “Sometimes.” Maya frowned. “Sometimes?” “Sometimes I love my life. Sometimes I worry about rent. Sometimes I wonder whether I should have taken the consulting job in Chicago.” “You’re kidding.” “No.” “I spent ten years wondering what would have happened if I hadn’t taken it.” The woman leaned closer to her camera. “Then maybe you should stop imagining that the other road was perfect.” Maya looked away. Outside, a car passed through the wet street, its headlights sliding across the ceiling. “Do you regret it?” she asked. “Your choices.” The woman was quiet for a moment. “I regret things. Of course I do. I regret people I hurt. Opportunities I ignored. Things I was too afraid to try.” She looked directly at Maya. “But I don’t think regret means you chose the wrong life.” Maya felt the words settle somewhere beneath her ribs. For months, she’d been building an imaginary world in which every decision she had made was a mistake. If she had stayed closer to home, she might have noticed how unhappy Daniel was becoming. If she’d called him back that night, perhaps he would have told her something important. If she’d been a better sister, perhaps he would still be alive. The woman watched her carefully. “You’re blaming yourself.” Maya’s eyes snapped back to the screen. “You don’t know anything about me.” “I know you.” “No. You know a version of me.” The woman’s smile faded. “Maybe that’s the same thing.” Maya wanted to argue. Instead, she looked at the clock. 2:24 a.m. The session was almost over. She suddenly felt desperate. “Can I talk to Daniel?” The woman hesitated. “I don’t know whether the system can arrange that.” “Please.” “Maya—” “Please. I just want to hear his voice.” For the first time, the woman looked genuinely frightened. “Listen to me. Whatever you think you’ll find here, don’t assume another life is better just because yours hurts.” “Why are you saying that?” The woman’s gaze flickered toward something outside the camera’s view. “I think you need to understand that there are things you can’t take back.” The screen shuddered. A warning appeared. SESSION LIMIT REACHED. “No!” Maya leaned toward the laptop. “Wait!” The woman’s image began to dissolve. “One more thing,” she said urgently. “What?” “Don’t trust the memories they give you.” The screen went black. Maya sat motionless. Her apartment seemed colder than before. Then her phone vibrated. An incoming message appeared from an unknown number. You shouldn’t have opened that door. Maya stared at it. She read it again. Then a notification sounded from her laptop. Another email from Continuum. ALTERNATE SESSION REQUEST RECEIVED PARTICIPANT: DANIEL REYES STATUS: ALIVE Maya’s fingers went numb. Below the message was a date. Tomorrow. She leaned closer to the screen, searching for a disclaimer, an explanation, anything that might make the words less impossible. There was nothing. Only a final line. Your requested session has been approved. Maya looked at the dark window, where her reflection stared back at her. For the first time in three months, she felt something stronger than grief. Hope. And somewhere deep inside her, a small, terrified voice whispered that hope might be the most dangerous thing of all.