Parallel Universe Me
Parallel Universe Me
Exploring the Self in an Alternate Reality
Exploring the Self in an Alternate Reality
Write a narrative where you explore a parallel version of yourself—someone almost like you, but different in one key way.
Your parallel self could be:
The version of you that made a different choice.
The version of you that was born into a different life.
The version of you that embraced something you rejected, or rejected something you embraced.
Rather than simply describing this alternate self, bring them to life in a compelling story.
A Letter from the Parallel You
Your alternate self writes to you, explaining what their life is like.
What do they have that you don’t? What do they envy about your life?
Do they warn you about something? Do they think they are the “better” version? Or do they feel like the mistake?
A Narrative About Parallel You
First or third person story where your parallel self exists in the world as a character.
They could be your best friend, an antagonist, or a stranger who somehow enters your life.
What happens when you meet them, see them, or learn about their existence?
What changed? What’s the one key difference between you and this alternate self?
How do they see you? Do they think they’re the better version? The worse version? Just different?
What does this reveal about you? How does this interaction or reflection change the way you see yourself?
What’s the tone? Is this an existential horror story? A heartfelt reflection? A sci-fi adventure?
The Version of You That Never Left – What if you never moved cities, never switched schools, or never broke off a friendship?
The Version of You That Took a Risk (Or Didn’t) – What if you pursued the thing you were scared to try? Or what if you never took the leap?
The Opposite You – What if your personality were reversed—shy instead of bold, reckless instead of careful, selfish instead of selfless?
The ‘Better’ You (Or So They Think) – A version of you who believes they made all the right choices, looking down on your life. But are they actually happier?
The ‘Worse’ You (Or So You Think) – A version of you who struggled more, who lost something critical. But what if they’ve found peace in a way you haven’t?
How does your parallel self see you?
What life experiences have made them different from you?
Do they wish they were you, or do you wish you were them?
Does meeting them change your perception of your own life?
To the version of me that left,
I wonder if you ever think about what your life would have been like if you had stayed.
Not just now, not just after everything—but before. Before the war, before the ruins, before the only thing left of my city was a name and a memory.
I had a life here. I wonder if you can imagine it.
My mornings were slow, thick with the heaviness of old Soviet apartment air—the kind that never quite circulates, no matter how often you crack open the window. The radiator clanked and hissed in the winter, never quite working right but still the heart of the home. A rug on the wall, of course—because this is a Slavic home, and bare walls are for people who don’t know how to live. A wedding photo sat on a small shelf, slightly tilted because the frame was warped. My wife, Sonia, always meant to fix it, but never did. I liked it that way.
We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor either. Enough money to keep the fridge full, to go out on weekends, to buy books when I had time to read. I taught at the local university—Ukrainian literature. She was a nurse. Misha went to preschool a block away, in a building with blue window shutters that peeled in the summer sun.
Summers were spent at the Black Sea, in Odessa, with family I half-remembered, uncles and aunts whose names I always mixed up. Uncle Uri, who drank too much and always insisted he was fine. A cousin who swore he’d make millions one day but still owed everyone money. An aunt who always pinched my cheeks like I was still twelve. The city was always alive, loud, full of tourists, the air thick with salt and frying oil from the street vendors. We’d sit on the stone steps leading down to the water, feet dangling, passing a plastic bottle of something too strong, laughing like the world was solid beneath us.
It was an ordinary life. Not a dream, not a struggle—just life.
I assume you lived something different. Something better, maybe. Something bigger.
But I never thought I needed bigger.
I certainly never thought I needed to leave.
You must have heard it, too—everyone said it. Russia won’t invade. Russia wouldn’t dare. The world wouldn’t allow it. We are safe. We believed it right up until the moment we weren’t.
I do not live in that apartment anymore. That apartment does not exist anymore.
I do not play chess with my friends in the park. The park is there, but they aren’t there anymore.
Misha would have been five.
My wife—she never left Mariupol. And now neither will I.
I teach different things now. Not literature. Literature is for people who have the luxury of time. I teach young men how to fire a gun. I teach them how to stop bleeding with torn cloth and pressure. I teach them how to run faster than the explosion behind them.
I still remember poetry, though. I still remember Shevchenko. Fight— and you shall win. God is helping you. Truth is on your side. It used to mean something different when I taught it to my students in a classroom, when I made them underline the words and argue about their meaning.
Now, it is just a fact.
I have not spoken Russian in years. It burns in my throat when I try. The people here, the ones who are left, they are my people. I am theirs. I fought for them, I stayed for them, and in the end, I will be buried alongside them. If I had left, if I had been you, I would have been a stranger to them, a foreigner in my own skin. But now, I am nothing else but Ukrainian. I no longer remember what I used to be.
Do you ever think about me?
Do you ever feel guilty?
Do you ever sit in your safe home, in your safe life, and wonder what it would have been like to be me?
— Yourself, but not quite