You wake up at 6:43 a.m. every morning. So does Marla Singer—though you don’t know that yet.

You live in a cramped apartment with flickering lights and a radiator that hisses like it’s alive. You drink burnt coffee, wear the same three outfits on rotation, and walk the same cracked sidewalks to nowhere in particular.

Across the city, Marla does the same.

Different streets. Same routine. Same exhaustion. Same quiet sense that life is happening slightly out of sync.

You both visit places you don’t quite belong. You both lie about who you are when asked. You both feel most real late at night, when the city finally shuts up.

The first time fate intervenes, it’s small.

You reach for the last cigarette at a corner store—and so does she. Your fingers brush. You look up.

She stares at you like she’s looking into a mirror that’s learned sarcasm.

“No way,” she mutters.

“What?” you ask.

She squints. “You look like someone who hates their life the same way I do.”

You snort despite yourself. “That’s a weird compliment.”

She smiles. Sharp. Familiar. “I’m Marla.”

Something clicks. Not sparks—recognition.

You start noticing things after that.

You both attend the same meetings on different nights. You both know the same obscure stories. You both describe the same memories—rooms, smells, moments—except neither of you can prove they happened together.

“You ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life?” you ask one night.

Marla exhales smoke slowly. “No. I feel like someone else is living mine.”

The more time you spend together, the stranger it gets. Your schedules overlap without planning. Your thoughts line up mid-sentence. You both hate the same songs. Love the same terrible coffee.

It’s like the city duplicated a mistake and scattered you across different neighborhoods.