I finally worked up the nerve to message him. “Hey, I think we might be the same person,” I wrote, attaching a side-by-side photo of us. He replied within minutes. “I was just looking at your profile. This is getting weird.”
We agreed to meet up. When I saw him walking toward me at the airport, it was a visceral shock. It’s one thing to see a photo; it’s another to see your own gait, your own posture, walking towards you in a stranger’s body.
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He grinned, and it was my grin. “Nice beard,” he said. “Nice glasses,” I shot back. We stood there for a moment, two 6’4″ redheads causing people in the terminal to stop and stare. It felt like a glitch in the simulation.
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We compared notes over dinner. He was left-handed; I was right-handed. That was the only major difference. Everything else—our mannerisms, our laugh, the way we held a fork—was identical.