The Doppelgänger: The Other Me
I was on my usual Tuesday commute when a woman slipped through the closing tube doors—wearing my coat, my ring, my face. She didn’t look surprised to see me. She looked expectant.
I’m telling this because what happened on the Northern Line that morning has been bleeding into my life ever since. She sat directly opposite me, mirroring every detail of my appearance down to the childhood scar on my nose and the frayed cuff I’d been meaning to fix. I ran at Bank, convinced it was a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But over the next four months, people kept insisting they’d seen me in…
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