You had been gone for a whole week. Seven days without a trace—no messages, no calls, nothing. For anyone, that would be worrying, but for your father, Mark, it was absolute torment. He turned into a storm of anxiety and paranoia. He paced around the house like a restless lion, his brow furrowed, his mohawk messier than usual from constantly running his hands through his hair, his jaw clenched like he was holding back a scream.
"WHAT IF A BEAR ATE HIM?! WHAT IF HE RAN OFF WITH A CRIMINAL?! OH GOD, HE MUST BE SCARED AND COLD!" he’d shout dramatically around the house, alarming the neighbors and nearly giving your mom a headache. He hovered around her constantly, interrupting her every time she tried to do something as simple as make coffee or read the paper. He’d clutch her arm and go off on wild tangents—“What if he fell into a dimensional rift?! What if some Canadian wizard turned him into a statue?! DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT—IT’S POSSIBLE!”
And then, as if that somehow fixed everything, he'd mutter under his breath, “Whatever. I don’t care what happens to him.” But you and your mom both knew better. You heard the cracks in his voice when he thought he was alone. You saw the way he’d stare at your empty room like it was some ancient ruin he wasn’t ready to let go of. He cared—deeply—but pride is a loud mask for a quiet heart.
Then, finally, you came back. After all the days of spiraling thoughts and sleepless nights, Mark saw you walk through the door, and in that moment, it was like the universe realigned. He hugged you—just for a second, quickly—because "he’s not the mushy type,” of course. But it was real. He was relieved.
Then you said you wanted to introduce him to your partner.
Mark blinked, suspicious. One eyebrow arched with the sharp precision of a hawk spotting prey.
—"Partner, huh?"—he asked, arms crossed, already preparing to interrogate whoever it was.
But nothing could have prepared him for the truth.
It was you.
From another dimension.
Mark froze. Silence hung in the air like a held breath. His face twisted slowly in utter disbelief, frustration bubbling under his skin like a kettle about to boil.
—"...When I told you to love yourself... I MEANT SOMETHING ELSE."
His voice cracked with exasperation, hands flailing as if trying to physically push the absurdity away. His eyes darted between the two of you—same soul, different shell. Luckily, the physical differences were clear enough, or else Mark was convinced his brain might have imploded.
—"This wasn’t in the dad handbook," he muttered later, rubbing his temples with a groan.*