Where am I ?
Same bedroom.
Same art piece on the wall.
Okay. 1311 Hancock St.
What time is it?
The exact same iPhone I had yesterday shows me the date and time.
September 15, 2026.
And now, most importantly—
Who am I?
Thank God, I am still myself.
Each day looks exactly the same, except for me, who knows that I have been waking up in different versions of reality every time I start my day.
Your days may look almost identical, but there is always one Easter egg hidden in each day.
Science calls it quantum jumping.
Medicine calls it schizophrenia.
And I would call it shit that happens only when you try to test both magic and science at the same time.
For those who believe in the multiverse, I would personally see them as losers who never had anything work out for themselves, so they had to believe in an alternate reality where they succeeded.
Until I became one of them—
trying to wake up in a different universe
where she loves me.
I checked the big wall of the building across from my window. Yesterday, it was white. The day before that, it was blue.
Now, today, it’s red.
According to my experience with quantum jumping for 64 days in a row, red can mean two things: extremely good or extremely bad.
After developing hopelessly romantic feelings for an acquaintance, I have been waking up in different realities.
I just wanted to shift to a reality where we are in love, which I actually encountered on Day 3 and Day 17.
I would not have done it if I had known that I would be waking up in rotations of all these possibilities, completely out of my control.
I got out of bed and got ready for work.
I worked at 461 Park Ave yesterday, but today my office has secretly moved to 460 Park Ave, which I vividly remember as a Chipotle yesterday and a Pilates office the day before.
I checked my phone, and as far as I am aware, I am back to living alone today.
Where is she?
She, in this context, is nowhere to be found.
Are we strangers again today?
Three days ago, she was my live-in partner and asked me to sit on her face, which I believed would be a shame to turn down.
And two days ago, I also got robbed by her near the subway station, where she assaulted me and punched me in the face with metal rings on her knuckles, breaking my nose.
I had to go to the ER and was given pain medication, which put me to bed early.
I woke up the next morning only to find a bouquet from her next to my bed—
along with my completely intact nose.
After my Face ID failed three times in a row while trying to use tap-to-pay today, I jumped over the turnstiles.
I remembered myself in the mirror, but my phone kept saying Face Not Recognized.
Maybe the brain remembered who I am and literally equalized that with how I look.
I was a doctor yesterday, but today I am the office manager.
In this reality, they do not really acknowledge foreign medical graduates as licensed physicians.
During my lunch break, as I checked my messages, I realized that we had never met in person in this reality.
She is just a Tinder match with intense sexual tension.
And according to the texts, she ended up blocking me after I jokingly called her sister—three seconds after she sent me a love song referring to me as her wife.
The text thread from the previous days went as follows:
“Move in with me.”
“Eat shit.”
“I am marrying you.”
“Umm… do I know you?”
“You have an outstanding balance of $350 on your gym membership account.”
“Oh, you fucking bitch.”
“I will be the knight to you, my princess.”
“I want to fuck you so bad.”
And the last text I got was:
“Goodbye, slut.”
I try to see if I have any plans after work.
I had no idea that my corporate bestie is currently working at a cat café.
She said she had been working there for six years.
Come on. We don’t have a cat café in Midtown.
I have a silent writing session coming up today.
This is my very first session, so I am ridiculously excited.
I used Google Maps to get to the bar and found a very cute place.
The weirdest thing is that, even though this is my very first time here, everyone literally acts like they have known me for three years.
“How was your summer?”
“Oh my God, good to see you again!”
“I love your new hair.”
Okay, this is weird because I was born blonde.
“No way, you did such a good job bleaching your hair!”
Was I a brunette in this reality?
Me with black hair sounds pathetic.
A guy comes up on stage and gives us a prompt about writing a diary-like piece.
I have never written in my life and have no idea how to write.
Now I have no choice but to submit this note for today—
so that I can remember what today was like
when tomorrow comes.
