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At first, I think I’ve sleepwalked because when I open my eyes, I am standing in my kitchen, staring across the room at my bedroom door. It’s dark outside. As I look out the kitchen window, I can see that it has rained because the puddles on the street reflect the neon “Manny’s” sign of the dry cleaners below.

The blood in my veins cools as my head snaps from the window to the rest of the apartment. The little tree is gone, as are the twinkle lights around the windows.

I might be in my apartment, but it’s not the apartment I went to sleep in. If Manny’s is still downstairs, then it’s at least six months ago.

The door to my bedroom begins to creak. I brace, not sure what to expect as it slowly opens, and someone steps from the shadows of my bedroom into the living room lit by the streetlamps outside.

It’s not until she almost reaches the kitchen that I can clearly make out her long, dark hair, the U of T sweatshirt, and the joggers with the hole in the crotch.

Whuuuuuuu. The sound is half “what,” as in “what the hell?” and the rest is a wobbly, confused breath.

The person in my living room is me—which makes sense considering this is my apartment, but it also bends my mind in a way I am unprepared for.

“Hello?” I call to her, knowing she probably can’t hear me.

Just like in the other times, she walks right through me, then heads for the fridge, pulling the door open, removing the Brita water filter pitcher, and filling a glass.

This action orients me to exactly where I am in time. It’s last winter, one of the three months I was seeing Lucca. He had this weird thing about tap water and carbons and convinced me to get a Brita water filter. The thing took up too much room in my fridge, so I got rid of it the day we broke up.

I watch myself drink the water and set the empty glass in the sink. I do not look good. My hair is slicked back, not with product but with the texture that comes with at least three days without a good hair wash. I am paler than normal, too, with deep purple circles under my eyes and not the kind that can be corrected with a good night’s sleep and expensive concealer.

Do I look like that now?

It’s hard to tell. I’ve never seen myself this way before.

The other me shuffles back toward our bedroom. I’m wondering why I’m here. What sort of meaning should I take from a late-night drink of water? But as she passes the couch, she stops and bends down with a sigh, picking something off the floor.

It looks like a jacket, which she tosses onto the armchair, but she overthrows and it falls behind it into the corner. However, she doesn’t notice because she is picking something else off the floor.

A memory begins to surface. It’s just a wisp at the back of my brain, not fully formed, but as Other Me straightens, staring at a piece of paper in her hand, the memory comes back with movie-like clarity, and I can recall the details completely.

I found a coaster on the floor from the bar Lucca likes on King. It had a phone number written on it in black eyeliner underlined twice.

I recall thinking Lucca seemed odd when he came over after the bar. I had suspected something was up, but then he fell asleep watching something on his phone, and I didn’t care enough to ask him about it.

I remember my heart pounding so hard when I found it. Had he picked some girl up at the bar and then, when she wouldn’t go home with him, called me?

Our relationship might have been casual but in my head, he’d just crossed a line.

I needed confirmation, so I found my phone, called the number, and waited.

It was several rings before someone answered.

“Hello?” said a male voice thick with sleep.

I remember feeling confused and then angry on both our parts. She had a boyfriend.

“Hi,” I replied. “Um, I’m looking for someone…a woman? She was at a bar on King tonight. She gave this number to a guy named Lucca?”

There was a beat, I remember, because I wondered if he might have hung up, but then there was a rustling sound like he was moving around, and then his voice came back on the line.

“I’m sorry. This is my number. I’m fairly certain I wasn’t picking up guys at bars tonight. Where did you say you were? King City?”

“No. Toronto.”

He laughed. “I’m nowhere near Toronto. I think there’s been a mix-up.”