The apartment smelled like instant coffee and rain-wet socks. You weren’t sure if it had actually rained — the windows were fogged, the sky was pink, and the hallway had started humming again. But maybe that was just the refrigerator.

You stood in the kitchen in one of Soap’s old T-shirts. The sleeves hung past your elbows. The counter was a mess: two mugs (one chipped), a spoon in the sink, a half-eaten granola bar that neither of you admitted to abandoning.

He came out of the bathroom toweling off his hair, drops of water catching the morning light like glitter. Still shirtless, still half-asleep, still Johnny.

“Morning,” he mumbled.

“It’s 2 p.m.”

“Then it’s morning somewhere.”

You handed him the coffee you made twenty minutes ago. Lukewarm, slightly too sweet. He took it without question, sipped, winced a little — but smiled anyway.

“This yours?”

“No, that was supposed to be yours.”

“Then who made the other one?”

You both looked at the second mug on the counter.

Silence.

“I thought you did,” you said.

Soap shook his head. “I only remember making toast. And even then, I might’ve dreamed that.”

You looked at each other. Then back at the mug.

It sat perfectly still. Steamless. Full.

“Well,” you said, “maybe Future Me made it for Present You.”

Soap looked thoughtful. “Or maybe Past Me was trying to say something and didn’t know how, so he made coffee.”

“You’d never do that. You talk too much.”

He grinned and sipped the mug again. “True.”

Outside, a bus passed — but when you looked out the window, there was no road. Just an empty field with one chair sitting in the middle. You blinked. It was gone.

Neither of you said anything about it.

Instead, Soap reached out, tucked a loose hair behind your ear.

“You ever think we’re just… I dunno. Living a second version of something?” he asked. “Like the real one already happened and this is just the echo?”

You nodded slowly. “But I like this version.”

“Me too,” he said. “It’s quieter.”

The fridge gave a soft chime. You weren’t sure if fridges were supposed to do that. You ignored it.

Instead, you looked at him. “Do you wanna go anywhere today?” you asked, not looking at him.

“Like… metaphorically?” he said, sipping again. “Or physically, like… put on pants?”

You snorted. “Either.”

He leaned against the counter, tilting his head. “We could go to that corner store that sells soup in bags. Or the laundromat with the haunted vending machine.”

“That machine’s not haunted.”

“You weren’t there when it blinked at me.”

You considered it for a moment. “Let’s stay in.”

Soap smiled, soft and crooked, like he was relieved. “Good. I like it here. Even if time’s all melty.”