Every day it feels like I'm searching for something. Maybe it's a place, or a person, or a name. Whatever it is, I'm starting to wonder if it simply doesn't exist in the world I'm in.

That's not some superfluous thing I like to say to myself, either. I've been trying to find the source for the restlessness building inside of me. But unlike a breakup, or a traumatic event, this feeling doesn't stem from anything I can really put my finger on. It doesn't fade, nor does it come back in waves. It's as if someone has taken an eraser and wiped away a very, very important part of me.

It's a struggle not to fidget on the bus. I train my eyes straight ahead to the window across from me, watching the urban landscape slowly roll by. There's a few people sitting in my peripheral vision. It takes all my effort to avoid glancing at them, admiring how perfect they look, wondering how their minds worked. Is everyone to them just an opportunity to compare and one-up, then barter for whatever they're jealous of? Or do they see themselves on a podium, as the best of the best? Their faces wear the same expression: a pleasant smile, but otherwise devoid of emotion. The people I see are unremarkable in that respect; they're beautiful but forgettable.

I never see the same person twice.

When I first moved here, I dismissed it, thinking it must be the bustling size of the city. The place had that effect on you, made you feel like a mouse in a maze. But soon enough, I realized the true reason.

Several times, I've witnessed a Trade take place. They would bargain, measuring the worth of various parts of themselves, until hands were shook and characteristics like hair or eyes were exchanged. Sometimes these things were intangible and would take the form of images like a network of thoughts, a flame or a brush stroke.

More often than not, they'd catch me staring. I try to appear uninterested, because really, it wasn't any of my business. But there's something so strange and intriguing about the whole process that demands my attention whenever I get the opportunity. It's not like I'm satisfied with how I am; there's many, many things I'd change. But most of the time, the fear of changing myself to the point of being unrecognizable holds me back. I don't want to look at myself in the mirror one day and not know the person staring back at me.

There's movement and murmurs, and a hand on my shoulder jerks me out of my thoughts. I look up at the man. He could pass for a movie star, I think.

"This is the last stop," he says.

I blink and look around. The bus has stopped, and everyone is filing out. I've arrived at work.

"Thank you..."

He nods and turns away before I could ask if we've met. That's the problem with Trading, you couldn't really be sure of who you're talking to, nor could you remember what anyone looked like.

Much like everything, the morning passes in a mundane manner. There was an orientation, and some brief re-training, but my work remains the same--typing up corporate documents full of jargon to be sent to the higher-ups. I've moved workplaces enough times to become indifferent to the "change," if not tired and slightly flummoxed. Nobody seems to question why companies and firms that are present one day suddenly disappear the next. Buildings vanish and are replaced in the blink of an eye. The only information I ever get is a letter mailed to my flat, informing me of my new position for the following day.

My fingers move mechanically across the keyboard. Words appear on the screen, which my eyes register, but my brain couldn't be bothered to absorb. I'm skilled enough to be able to separate my body and mind; the latter is anchored to the task at hand, leaving my mind free to wander.

Moving here must be the biggest mistake I've made, though I don't know why I did it. My memory of everything before I came here (what, two years ago?) is riddled with holes and question marks. All I remember is the feeling of dissatisfaction, but mixed with that was something I can't pinpoint. Shame? Anxiety? Fear, even? Sometimes if I try hard enough, I see a hazy vision of my younger self in a different flat, looking at a reflection of a completely different girl.

I rub my temples, near the sore part that likes to ache when I think too much. I bumped my head while walking into a mirror once--I think, anyway. Though the swelling and bruising faded, it still hurts from time to time.

"Are you alright?" a female voice asks. The woman in the cubicle across from me arches an elegant eyebrow. "You seem a bit troubled."

I shake my head and smile automatically. I've always thought that people are too self-absorbed to notice others, much less approach them out of concern. Yet not one, but two people have done otherwise today. "I'm fine, thank you."

We hold each other's gaze for a moment too long before turning back to our work.

I know her. Her voice is different, and so is the shade of her skin, but the aura of confidence she carries is the same. I've seen her before. No, I've almost Traded with her.

When we first crossed paths at the local pub (back when it served quality beer), the way she carried herself drew me to her like a moth to a flame. I wanted that confidence. The certainty that would lift my chin and let me walk down the street without doubting my place in the world. Before I knew it, I agreed to give her the sound of my voice in exchange.

"You sound different," she said when I asked why she wanted it. "Like your voice was made with a purpose."

But it didn't work. She guided me through the process, said I only needed to be willing to part with my voice, and I was, but we couldn't trade

"Maybe another time, when you're ready," she sighed while I stood there, flustered.

That was the first and last time I tried to Trade with someone.

As the day comes to a close, I find myself craving for something different to do tonight. I can't keep returning to my flat straight away; I've gotten used to living in my own little world, but I can only do this for so long, right? 

So when it's finally time to leave, I'm the first one out of the building. No matter where I go, whether it's indoors or outside, everything is cloaked in the same sense of monotony. There's a stubborn part of my brain that thinks the fresh air will clear my head, though the air doesn't feel any different to me. I decide to go along anyway, and skip the bus ride in favour of a stroll.

I've turned down the street heading to my flat when she catches my eye. A glimpse, a rush of realization and instinct are all I need to run and grab the young woman by her sleeve. She turns around, and as if in slow motion, widens her eyes. I stare back, equally as stunned.

It's like I'm looking into a mirror. Brown hair and eyes, olive skin, even the simple shirt and pants...she looks exactly like me, right down to the way she plays with her fingers nervously.

"You found me first," she says eventually. "That's good, I suppose."

For some reason I glance around, hoping we won't attract a crowd. Quite the contrary. Instead, people on the sidewalk are stepping around us, eyes facing forward like they're pretending not to notice.

"Don't mind them," she tells me, "they're just being...well, you wouldn't get it."

For once I don't feel anxious talking to another person. Something about her tells me she's different from everyone else. "Are you like them, or like me?" I ask.

"I'm your Mirror Twin," she replies, then blinks. "You don't remember?" Her face is hopeful, but then her expression kind of just--crumples. "Right. You couldn't have."

"Then tell me. Tell me everything." The words are out of my mouth before I can consider what I'm saying. This woman, I can feel it, is who I've been looking for all this time. The key to my answers. But am I ready to face them?

"You were born in the real world, where Trading doesn't exist," she begins. "Then there's the Mirror World, the one we're in right now. It's supposed to be the reflection of what each person in the real world wants to be."

I nod slowly. "Like a fantasy land gone wrong."

"That's not untrue. I'm sure our smiles don't fool you. No one's happy." Sadness creeps into her eyes. "It's why I left."

"You left? For the real world? How?"

"You're familiar with the concept of Trading, yes? I said the real world didn't have Trading, but that was only among its own people. There's an exception. If both sides agree, a Real person can switch places entirely with their Mirror Twin." She paused. "It's the biggest Trade you can ever do."

Switch places with a copy? "Why would anyone want to do that?"

"To be perfect," my Mirror Twin said simply. "People from your world are plagued with jealousy. They envy others, dream of becoming what they can't. We offer them a chance to have what they want, and give them the ability to Trade. In return, we take their place in the real world."

I shake my head. "I wouldn't have Traded. Ever. I know myself. I would've been too scared to do it."

"You were."

"Then how did I end up here? I can't even Trade..."

I halt as the realization hits me. Mirror World. Mirror Twin. My youngest memory of standing in front of a mirror, before fear and vertigo ripped my senses apart. My sore forehead. "You forced me to Trade."

She doesn't answer.

"Well? Did you?" My voice rises, not out of anger but desperation. I want vindication. I want to know that I wasn't the person to throw away everything I had for some meaningless life.

"Yes," she finally murmurs. "But the Trade didn't work out perfectly. Your features stayed the same. I couldn't function normally in the real world either."

She takes a deep breath. "When I saw you in the mirror...you looked so unhappy with yourself. All I could think was how lucky you had it, to live in the real world and not have to endure this forgery of a life. I was greedy. I pulled you in before you could make up your mind." My Mirror Twin looks at me. "It's not an excuse, but you did consider Trading. For a moment, you wanted it."

I scan my hands, my body, the mental image of who I am and my flaws. "And what did I want?"

She smiles sadly. "That doesn't matter now. What matters is that you're real."

The Mirror Twin takes my hands in hers, gripping them firmly. "Do you hear me? You are real. You were born into the real world as a real human being who holds the potential to do absolutely anything.

"We, on the other hand, are nothing. Conjectures of people's imagination and idle dreaming," she pushes on. "Do you know how frustrating it is to do anything here, anything that'll leave even a scratch for the world to know that you exist?"

"But there's books, and companies, and other things that people made..."

Then I trail off, because I think of all the vanishing buildings, businesses and works of art, never to be seen again. I also think of the times I was "transferred" to a new job at a new place because the previous company had simply disappeared. I take in a sharp breath. "Nothing is permanent here."

"Except you," she says. There's a bittersweet smile on her face. "And it's time for you to leave."

My stomach drops all of a sudden, and I get the same vertigo sensation like the ground has been ripped from under me. Again. I don't want to leave, not when I have so many questions for her.

"You'll know in due time," my Mirror Twin says as the world slowly dissolves into nothingness. The edges of her figure start to dissipate. The questions hang on my tongue, and I open my mouth, but I can't speak. I can only watch as my Mirror Twin fades into the silence. Her mouth forms two words. I squint--

I get the lurching sensation that I'm moving, falling, and I catch myself just before I smack my face on the hardwood floor.

A wave of déja-vu washes over me, and my forehead prickles. "That was close," I mutter. Getting up, I see the woman again--before realizing that she's behind a mirror. Not only that, but she mimics every one of my movements perfectly.

A bed, a kitchen, a desk and a low ceiling...slowly, it comes to mind that this must be my flat. My real flat. It's completely devoid of personal flavour. Or maybe that's how I always was--just a blank slate of a person, with no defining qualities or accomplishments other than an abundance of self-doubt. Did my flat in the Mirror World look like this, too? I wrack my memories for mental images, but all I can remember is a white void.

Already, the memory of the conversation with that woman--my Mirror Twin--is becoming hazy. I walk up to the mirror propped against the wall, half-expecting that it'll turn into a portal and transport me back to that other world. The glass is cool and flat against my hand, and very real.

What did she do while trying to live in my place? Did she try to build a life worth living, only to have it all wiped away because she wasn't real? And why would she tell me all of this, only to launch me back to where I started? I didn't want to stay there, but somehow the real world seems terrifying. I glance to the apartment windows overlooking the city at night. Never had the world looked so big and full of life.

It scares me.

A lump forms in my throat, and that's when I realize I've been holding my breath. I let it out shakily.

I'm sinking in this pool of the unknown. Before, I had the restlessness driving me forward. Now, all I have is myself, and when I close my eyes, instead of a black square, I see a mess of scribbles and conflicted emotions.

I sit on the edge of my bed. It's so quiet here. Did I have friends or family? What do I even want for myself? Who am I? Like many things, it never occurred to me that I barely have any memory of my childhood--or the past, in general. Not even a simple timeline.

The walls of my apartment feel far away and too close at the same time. Nothing feels right. I used to wonder how people could be so self-conscious about themselves in the Mirror World. Now I'm the one stuck in what's sure to be an endless cycle of dissatisfaction.

Going on, and on, and on in the same circles...
It's almost like I'm trapped again. Only in a different world, the world that I belong in. How ironic.

But I can fix it, right? Like she said, I can do anything. It sounds naïve though, like what a parent would read to their child as a bedtime story.

I don't know what to do, what to expect for tomorrow. Eventually, I drift off to sleep, letting her words wrap me like a blanket: "You're real."

Whoooo, 3 rewrites and it's finally done! Gosh, surrealistic concepts like this one (and the Subway) were really hard for me to pull off, but I'm happy with how it ended up.

Fun fact: While reading my 2nd rewrite, my friend described it as being high on drugs because I was jumping back and forth between thoughts and couldn't settle on a concrete timeline.