I always knew I didn't belong here. From my earliest memories, when the world around me was just a smudge of gray hues and cold stares, I felt the presence of something else—a parallel life pulsing just beyond the edge of reality.
The first time I saw it, I was seven. I sat on the floor of my room, surrounded by broken toys—another outburst from my father. My favorite plastic airplane lay shattered against the wall where it had been thrown, its little red star on the tail nearly worn away by my countless touches. The only bright spot in my gray world. For weeks afterward, I hid it under my pillow, trying to tape it back together in secret, night after night, until I finally understood that some things just can't be fixed.
I remember it clearly—the walls dissolving like a veil, and for a moment, I saw another child: me, but different. He sat in a bright room filled with books and colorful drawings on the walls. In his hands, he held the same airplane—whole, gleaming, its red star shining like a beacon. A woman—his mother—held him with a warmth I had never known. The air smelled like vanilla and freshly baked sweets, not the cold dampness and mildew of our basement.
"Are you okay?" she whispered, her voice like a distant bell, before the vision vanished.
Over the years, these flashes came more often. Sometimes at the most unexpected moments—while waiting for the bus in the rain, during yet another family fight, or in the quiet hours before dawn when loneliness weighed heaviest. I watched this other me grow alongside me, but in a world full of possibilities and love. There, the rustling leaves sounded like whispers of hope, while here, they were sighs of despair.
At fifteen, I realized these weren't just fantasies. After a particularly violent beating from my father, I ran away to the city park. The taste of blood in my mouth mixed with the salty bitterness of tears. I sat on a bench and cried when suddenly, the world around me trembled. The air thickened like jelly, and through tear-blurred eyes, I saw reality crack with a sound like shattering glass. Through the fissure, I glimpsed him—the other me—sitting on the same bench but in a brighter, warmer world.
I reached out, and for a moment, I almost touched that other reality. I felt a warmth unlike anything I'd ever known—as if I were touching the very essence of happiness. My fingers dissolved toward an invisible flame that glowed without burning. But when I tried to step forward, the rift closed with a soft sigh, leaving me once more in my cold world.
In time, I learned more about these portals. They appeared most often in moments of intense emotion, especially pain. As if the universe was trying to show me an alternative—that somewhere out there was a place I truly belonged. Each time, the scent of that other world lingered for seconds—coffee, warm bread, and something sweet, indescribable—the smell of home.
Now, I'm twenty-five. I sit in my apartment, surrounded by stacks of books about parallel universes and quantum physics. The walls are covered in papers, formulas, and diagrams—my attempts to understand the science behind the impossible. I've taped dozens of sketches to the walls—places I’ve glimpsed over the years: the park with golden leaves, the library with stained-glass windows, the red-roofed house where the other me lives with his family. Beneath each one, I’ve written notes describing the scents, sounds, textures—trying to preserve every detail of that world.
Last night, the vision was different. I saw the other me stand before a mirror, looking straight into my eyes. For the first time, I realized—he could see me too. He always had. His lips moved soundlessly, but I understood.
"It's time."
I know what I have to do. All these years, the portals appeared not just to show me another life but to prepare me for a choice. A choice between familiar pain and unknown hope.
Yesterday, I got a letter from my father—the first in five years. His crooked handwriting, once a threat, now looked weak and shaky. The paper reeked of cigarettes and cheap liquor—the smell of my childhood. Inside were just two words: I'm sorry, son. Below that, a smudge—maybe a tear, maybe alcohol. Typical of him—even his remorse is half-hearted. Maybe this is the sign I’ve been waiting for. The last thread binding me here, finally unraveled.
I grab my backpack, packed with only the essentials. On top, I place the little red airplane—taped together but still with a broken wing. A symbol of everything I couldn’t fix in this world. I know where I need to go—to that bench in the park, where I first touched the other world.
Outside, the air thrums with anticipation, like guitar strings before a concert. As I walk through empty streets, memories crash against my consciousness—every moment of pain and loneliness, every glimpse of that other life. My footsteps echo hollowly on the pavement, mingling with the distant hum of a city that never sleeps. I wonder if I’ll keep my memories when I cross over. Will I remember this world that made me who I am? Is the pain part of me, or just an accident I can leave behind?
I reach the bench just as the first rays of dawn touch the sky. The air is sharp and cold, laced with autumn mist. I sit, close my eyes, and focus on every moment I’ve seen the other side. I breathe deeply, trying to catch the scent of that world—warm, sweet, the fragrance of joy.
When I open my eyes, the rift is there—larger, clearer than ever. Its edges flicker like a mirage, and through it comes vanilla and fresh bread, bird songs I don’t recognize, children laughing without fear. The other park is alive, more vivid—colors so saturated it stings my eyes, long dulled by sorrow. And there, on the other side, is him—the other me—reaching out.
Even beyond the edge of reality, the difference is clear. His skin glows with life, his eyes bright and untroubled—no shadows like the ones I know from the mirror. His clothes are plain but clean and whole. In his hand, he holds the same red airplane—but this one is perfect, gleaming, ready to fly.
My hand trembles as I reach for the rift. The air between us thickens, like liquid I must part to cross. What if this is a trap? What if I lose the little I have here? In my mind, I see Mrs. Petrova from the third floor, who always leaves soup at my door when I’m sick. I remember the scent of her kitchen—dill and care, love without conditions. And Pavel, from the bookstore, who understands without words, who always knows which book will comfort me. Will they remember me? Will they miss me?
Then I remember the nights spent crying, the sound of shattering bottles in the next room, the feeling of being unworthy of anything, of anyone. My hand moves more firmly toward the rift.
"Why did you wait so long?" His voice reaches me like an echo from the future.
"I was afraid," I answer honestly, my voice lost in the crack between worlds.
"So was I," he smiles. "But pain isn’t meant to be home."
Now I understand. This isn’t running away. This is coming home. I don’t hesitate anymore. I take a deep breath and step through, feeling the world dissolve like a veil. For a moment, I am everywhere and nowhere, existing in countless versions of myself. Every cell in my body trembles, my bones become music, my blood pulses with the rhythm of the universe.
I see thousands of possibilities, thousands of lives, thousands of worlds where I am happy or miserable, strong or weak, loved or forgotten. For an instant, I understand—they are all real. All these versions of me exist somewhere in infinity. But the one I step into now is my home. It always has been.
Then everything sharpens. I stand in a park I know and yet is entirely new. The air is sweeter—jasmine and roses, freshly cut grass and sunlight. Colors so vivid it’s like seeing for the first time. The trees hum melodies, their leaves flashing like emeralds in the morning light. Even the sky is different—deeper blue, clouds like a child’s boundless imagination.
On the bench beside me sits the version of myself I always wanted to be. As I approach, I melt into him—or he into me. It’s unclear which of us is real, but it doesn’t matter anymore. For the first time, I am whole.
"Welcome home," I hear my voice—but it’s warmer now, sure.
I look at the red airplane in my hand. Here, it’s whole, perfect, ready to fly. But I notice something else—a faint white line where the wing was once broken. There’s a scar, but no pain. Now, it’s just a memory—proof of the journey that brought me here.
I turn back, but the rift is gone. My old world has vanished for good, leaving only a faint trace of pain and longing. Yet, deep in my chest, I carry Mrs. Petrova’s warmth and Pavel’s wisdom. Not everything from the past deserves to be forgotten.
I breathe deep, feeling the last remnants of my old life dissolve in the morning air. Somewhere behind me, an empty bench holds the secret of my disappearance. Maybe someone will find it, wonder what happened. Maybe they’ll sit in the same spot and glimpse their own alternative.
I walk down the path, my footsteps musical on the pavement. The sun shines brighter here but doesn’t scorch. The wind carries scents of flowers I’ve never seen, songs of birds more melodious than any I've heard. The people I pass smile genuinely, their eyes shining with a sincerity so rare in the old world.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like a spectator in my own existence. I’m not hiding in the corners of reality, trying to vanish. At last, I’m where I was always meant to be—in the world that waited patiently as I gathered the courage to return.
I stop and lift the red airplane to the sky. Here, it can really fly. I let it go, watching as it rises toward the clouds, a small red speck against endless blue. Somewhere in the distance, I hear a child’s laughter—maybe mine from years ago, maybe one yet to be.
This world chose me long before I knew I needed saving. Now, it’s my turn to choose it back. And for the first time, the choice is easy—because finally, I can say I’m home.
The End.