The morning light is an unwelcome visitor, squeezing through George's curtains and forcing itself into the modest bedroom. George sits slumped in an ancient armchair, its springs protesting beneath him, as he wills the universe to go away. Everything seems as it should be but he is not fooled; the Life Simulation System waits, eager to remind him of the people he never was.
He rises and starts pacing.
"This isn't me..." His gestures are restrained, his movements hesitant, as if even his limbs doubt their existence. Silence hangs like a heavy fog, thick with questions and quiet despair.
He closes his eyes and sees not darkness but vivid snapshots: an empty crib, a crowded taxi, a graffiti-stained wall. Each image feels like a scar, the remnants of lives compressed into one long, relentless night.
"Or is it?" he mutters , the question echoing off the walls. His voice sounds foreign, as though it belongs to someone else—a remnant of another simulation. He shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps pacing , slow steps that feel like they belong to an old man rather than a confused teenager. Each step on the wooden floor brings an indignant creak, a soundtrack to his internal disarray.
The mirror stops him in his tracks, throwing his reflection back at him. The boy staring at him is someone he knows and doesn't know, all at once. His brown eyes are tired, his short dark hair more tousled than usual. He sees confidence there, a surprising depth for someone so young, but also a nagging, adolescent awkwardness that roots him firmly in the here and now. It's like the mirror can't decide who he is either.
George drags a hand through his hair, eyes locked on the mirror. They feel like someone else's eyes—older, worn by years of lives not lived.
Confusion simmers beneath his skin, threatening to boil over. Is this who he is now? Who he will become? A million different people stitched into one eighteen-year-old package? The room offers no answers, only more silence, stretching between his thoughts like an eternity.
He looks at the mirror again, willing it to show him someone whole. Instead, he finds himself splintered, fragmented reflections all jostling for dominance. This is me, he thinks. And this, and this. Maybe.
His hand drops to his side, and he turns away from the reflection. There is no solace in the mirrored face, just more questions piled on top of questions. A pressure builds inside him, the weight of every false memory bearing down on his slender shoulders. It's like he's drowning in silence, each unspoken thought a heavy stone pulling him deeper.
He risks a glance at the blinking interface, half-expecting it to explode with accusations, with prompts from the Life Simulation System that claw at his fragile sense of self. The [Mundane Simulation available] prompt stares back at him, innocent yet malevolent, a reminder of the digital ghost haunting him. It mocks him with its absence of noise, like a predator playing dead to lure its prey.
He crosses the room in a few slow steps and stands over the desk, his shadow cast long and distorted in the morning light. His hand hovers above the Start option, the hesitation palpable. It's a physical struggle, a tug-of-war between the temptation to dive back into another lifetime and the fear of losing his own in the process. He feels an itch in his brain, the addictive pull of the System calling to him, whispering promises of more worlds, more experiences, more of everything that isn't really his. The silence eggs him on, a silent dare. But his fingers never make contact. He yanks his hand back as if it is over a live wire, ready to shock him with more than he can handle.
His mouth is dry, his heart racing from the close encounter. He paces again, more agitated this time, like a caged animal searching for a way out. His movements are jittery, every step a betrayal of his supposed composure. Despair curls around him, insidious and unshakable. He sinks back into the armchair, letting it swallow him whole. Springs creak in protest, and the faded upholstery scratches against his skin. He slumps further, a marionette with cut strings, and lets the confusion and doubt close in around him. He doesn't need the System for lifetimes of regret; he's got enough right here in this one.
The room remains as it was: steeped in quiet despair, heavy with the unanswerable. George stares at the blue interface again, his enemy, his savior, the thing he can't live with or without anymore. He's caught in limbo, halfway between someone he knew and someone he doesn't. "This isn't me... or is it?" he mutters again, softer this time, less a question than a plea. The words fall flat, swallowed by the same silence that consumes everything else. The phone stays silent. George stays slumped. And the unyielding quiet fills the room like a fog that won't lift.
***
The rain comes down in sheets, painting the world in shades of gray. George stands by the dim doorway of his apartment building, his posture as rigid as the concrete wall behind him. Water drips from the edge of his jacket, tracing slow paths down his sleeve like the minutes ticking through his thoughts. Vlad appears, a burst of color with his shaggy blonde hair and infectious grin, his lanky frame ducking through the downpour. "Hey man, you okay?" he asks, clapping George on the shoulder. George nods, but it's less an answer than a reflex. They fall into step together, their footfalls splashing on the wet pavement. Vlad chatters on, tossing jokes into the dreary afternoon like lifelines, but George's mind drifts, caught in a rip current of simulated memories. He forces a strained smile, trying to keep afloat.
The street is a blur of water and gray concrete, each drop adding to the drumming in George's head. Vlad shakes the rain from his hair like a golden retriever, his energy boundless, his presence loud and undeniable. George's nod from earlier hangs in the air between them, as damp and heavy as the rain-soaked world. "You sure?" Vlad presses, giving him a sidelong look, one eyebrow raised in playful skepticism. George shrugs, the motion mechanical. "I'm fine," he mutters, but the words sink fast, swallowed by the steady roar of rain. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets, and his shoulders hunch forward, a sharp contrast to Vlad's open, buoyant stride.
They walk without speaking, Vlad taking exaggerated steps to splash through puddles, his feet leaving chaotic prints in their wake. George's shoes barely whisper against the wet ground, his path careful, deliberate. He is a satellite caught in Vlad's gravitational pull, orbiting but never quite touching. The blond's voice cuts through the rainfall, bright and persistent. "Hey, remember that time we skipped school and almost got caught by Old Man Petrescu?" He grins, the memory as vivid as the first time he told it. "You were so pale, I thought you'd pass out before we even made it home."
George chuckles, but it's thin, stretched too tight over his real thoughts. The laughter feels foreign, as if borrowed from another life. He searches for words, something to match Vlad's playful energy, but all he finds are the echoes of a hundred other moments, other friends, other worlds. His eyes stay glued to the slick pavement, each reflection of the rainy sky another reminder of the chaos inside his head.
The sidewalk stretches ahead, a glistening path through the gray cityscape. Vlad's teasing banter hangs between them, a lifeline that George is too numb to grasp. It takes a few beats before Vlad tries again, this time his voice softer, edged with worry. "So, what's going on? You've been... different lately." He pauses, the usual bravado stripped away. "You know you can tell me, right?"
George stumbles over his reply, the words awkward in his mouth. "I don't know, man. It's... complicated." The truth lodges in his throat, too tangled to spit out. He can't tell Vlad about the simulations, about the endless lifetimes unraveling in his mind. He can't explain what he doesn't understand himself.
Vlad slows his pace, matching George's somber steps. He is silent for a moment, letting the rain speak. When he does talk, the words are uncharacteristically measured. "I'm here, you know? Whatever's going on, we'll figure it out." The sincerity is like a lifeline tossed at sea, and for the first time, George feels a twinge of something that resembles hope.
The glow of a small café with flickering neon signage catches their eye, a beacon in the storm. They duck inside, shaking off the wet like a pair of stray dogs. It's warm, cramped, the air heavy with the smell of burnt espresso and the low murmur of half-hearted conversations. They claim a table by the window, each with a cup of lukewarm coffee, the kind that requires more imagination than taste buds to enjoy.
Vlad taps his fingers against the chipped Formica, the sound a nervous drumroll. He tries to catch George's eye, but George stares out the rain-streaked window instead, watching the water blur the world beyond. "You know," Vlad starts, his voice cautious, "whatever it is... it doesn't change who you are." He leans forward, earnest, waiting for George to meet his gaze.
George hesitates, the wall inside him cracking just a little. "It's like... I don't know who I am anymore." His admission is quiet, almost lost beneath the ambient café noise. "These last few days... it's been crazy. I've been crazy."
Vlad leans back, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "About time you said it out loud," he quips, but the humor is gentle, wrapped in relief. George manages a half-smile, the first genuine one in days.
The conversation unfolds slowly, the café a world apart from the storm outside. Vlad asks careful questions, and George gives hesitant answers, each one drawing them closer to the heart of the matter. "All these... things," George explains, fumbling for words. "It's like I'm becoming someone else. Like... multiple someone else's."
Vlad absorbs this, nodding like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Okay, so… you feel like you're becoming multiple people?" He frowned, tilting his head. "Like, are we talking split personality? Or just a 'too much coffee and not enough sleep' situation?" George didn't answer immediately. He wasn't sure he had an answer. Vlad sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know what? Doesn't matter. You're my idiot friend, and I've seen you pull weirder shit than this. So, whatever's going on, we'll figure it out."
The floodgates open, and George talks, the words gaining momentum, slipping from him before he can reel them back. "I feel like a stranger, even to myself. Like I've lived so many lives that I've forgotten how to live this one."
Vlad watches him with those clear blue eyes, full of understanding and zero judgment. "Man," he says finally, "you always were a little weird, but this... this takes the cake."
They laugh, the sound unexpected but welcome, bridging the gap that seemed so wide just moments ago. George's laugh is more robust now, as though the act of sharing his burden lightens it. It doesn't solve anything—not really—but it's a start.
The rain outside softens to a gentle patter, a lullaby in the dreary afternoon. The traffic hums like distant white noise, a reminder of the world beyond their small table. George still feels fragmented, but the pieces seem less scattered now, less jagged. He cradles the cooling coffee, comforted by its warmth and by Vlad's unwavering presence.
As they sit in silence, both absorbing the fragile peace, George thinks that maybe—just maybe—he doesn't have to figure everything out alone. It's a thought that should feel obvious but hits him as a revelation. He's still afloat, buoyed by something stronger than simulation or skill. It's real. It's now. It's him.
"Thanks," George says, the word heavy with gratitude and uncertainty. Vlad just nods, as if to say, What else did you expect?
They sit a while longer, the café around them a cocoon of muted sound and dim light.
George sipped his coffee, letting the warmth settle in his hands. The weight of other lives still clung to him, but for the first time, it didn't feel so heavy.
Maybe he wouldn't figure everything out today. Maybe he never would. But at least, for now, he wasn't alone.