You wake up in an unfamiliar bed, to an alarm you have never heard before. But you do not panic; by now you know better than that. Having woken up in a new bed every day for so long, there is no longer anything to panic about. Trying to get your bearings, you look at your surroundings. The soft pink curtains drape over the window where the early morning light has slowly begun to creep through. The room is relatively well kept, despite the few articles of clothing littering the floor. It is easy to tell that whoever should have woken up here this morning clearly put a lot of thought into the decor, and you feel a slight pang of guilt at knowing you are here today when she should be.
But this feeling quickly fades, as you know better than to think she is missing a day, or that this will have any kind of consequence for her life. She will have no recollection that this day ever happened, as by the time you wake up, this day will never have happened. You know the next alarm will show the same date as today, the same day you have been stuck in for longer than you can remember. You try not to think about yesterday’s body, or the day before that’s, or the day before that’s. It eventually becomes too hard to keep straight in your mind, especially when you are repeating the same twenty-four hours on a loop. But it is hard to forget all the incredible lives you have been able to live, even if only for a day. When your body was nimble and strong, the day it was able to dance all of Swan Lake through muscle memory alone. The woman who had enough power and money to do whatever she wanted in the whole world. Or even the old man, the one who had not left his house in months, but whose brilliant mind brought forth magnificent songs into the world, even though there was no one around to hear them.
You have finally lost count of the days — maybe months, maybe years — that have gone by. You wake up on the same morning, of the same insignificant day, except in a different body. Sometimes in the same town, but sometimes on a different continent where you cannot even speak the right language. But you know enough now to know your actions will have no consequences to you or the unlucky soul you get stuck with, at least not that you know of.
As someone turns over to face you, you finally realize there is a sleeping girl in your arms and you have no idea how it took so long for you to notice. That arm is completely asleep, and as she tries to move just a bit closer to you, it sends pricks of pain through your skin. But you are not annoyed or angered by this; you cannot explain why, but it feels almost right. Of course you have no idea what her name is, but you know it does not really matter.
But today is different. It seems familiar. It feels almost like home. You try to think back though all the different lives you have lived, but none of them come to mind. That is, until you think through your life, your real life. You finally take a good look at the girl in your arms, and she seems so familiar it is as though you are staring into your own reflection. You begin to really study her, and you do not know how you ever could have mistaken her face for a stranger’s.
It’s yours.
You have not seen your own body for so long that you have almost forgotten what it looks like, but now you are so shocked that you cannot even recognize it. You study the room a bit more closely, and it hits you: the last night you were really you. You probably had a bit too much to drink with Sara at that party, the one she dragged you to even when you did not want to go. You remember her — your best friend — kissing you, and you kissed her back, and you went to her room, the room you had seen countless times, which suddenly seemed very different. You remember the smile you tried to hide, but that kept tugging at the corners of your lips. But you woke up the next day, in the wrong place, the wrong bed, with the wrong person by your side.
She opens her eyes, and after a few moments of confusion she looks at you, and you see the same emotions you felt just moments before play across her face.
She smiles at you, and you know.
You know she recognizes her own body, and you hear your name for the first time in longer than you can remember as she smiles. It happens again, just like last time, except this time you lean in first.
But this feeling quickly fades, as you know better than to think she is missing a day, or that this will have any kind of consequence for her life. She will have no recollection that this day ever happened, as by the time you wake up, this day will never have happened. You know the next alarm will show the same date as today, the same day you have been stuck in for longer than you can remember. You try not to think about yesterday’s body, or the day before that’s, or the day before that’s. It eventually becomes too hard to keep straight in your mind, especially when you are repeating the same twenty-four hours on a loop. But it is hard to forget all the incredible lives you have been able to live, even if only for a day. When your body was nimble and strong, the day it was able to dance all of Swan Lake through muscle memory alone. The woman who had enough power and money to do whatever she wanted in the whole world. Or even the old man, the one who had not left his house in months, but whose brilliant mind brought forth magnificent songs into the world, even though there was no one around to hear them.
You have finally lost count of the days — maybe months, maybe years — that have gone by. You wake up on the same morning, of the same insignificant day, except in a different body. Sometimes in the same town, but sometimes on a different continent where you cannot even speak the right language. But you know enough now to know your actions will have no consequences to you or the unlucky soul you get stuck with, at least not that you know of.
As someone turns over to face you, you finally realize there is a sleeping girl in your arms and you have no idea how it took so long for you to notice. That arm is completely asleep, and as she tries to move just a bit closer to you, it sends pricks of pain through your skin. But you are not annoyed or angered by this; you cannot explain why, but it feels almost right. Of course you have no idea what her name is, but you know it does not really matter.
But today is different. It seems familiar. It feels almost like home. You try to think back though all the different lives you have lived, but none of them come to mind. That is, until you think through your life, your real life. You finally take a good look at the girl in your arms, and she seems so familiar it is as though you are staring into your own reflection. You begin to really study her, and you do not know how you ever could have mistaken her face for a stranger’s.
It’s yours.
You have not seen your own body for so long that you have almost forgotten what it looks like, but now you are so shocked that you cannot even recognize it. You study the room a bit more closely, and it hits you: the last night you were really you. You probably had a bit too much to drink with Sara at that party, the one she dragged you to even when you did not want to go. You remember her — your best friend — kissing you, and you kissed her back, and you went to her room, the room you had seen countless times, which suddenly seemed very different. You remember the smile you tried to hide, but that kept tugging at the corners of your lips. But you woke up the next day, in the wrong place, the wrong bed, with the wrong person by your side.
She opens her eyes, and after a few moments of confusion she looks at you, and you see the same emotions you felt just moments before play across her face.
She smiles at you, and you know.
You know she recognizes her own body, and you hear your name for the first time in longer than you can remember as she smiles. It happens again, just like last time, except this time you lean in first.