Someone Is Living My Tomorrow

I started receiving messages from a stranger who knew what I was going to do next. Then she asked me not to open my front door.

The first message arrived at 8:06 on Thursday morning.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Please don't open your front door tomorrow at 9:17.

I stared at my phone.

ME: Who is this?

UNKNOWN NUMBER: My name is Nina. I know this is going to sound insane, but I need you to listen.

ME: Are you selling something?

NINA: No.

ME: That's exactly what someone selling something would say.

There was a pause.

Then she sent me a photograph.

It was my kitchen.

My chipped blue coffee mug sat beside the sink. My grocery list was attached to the refrigerator with a ridiculous little magnet shaped like a dancing potato.

And there, standing beside the counter, was a woman wearing my favorite green cardigan.

She had my haircut.

My glasses.

Even the tiny silver necklace I'd bought myself after my first promotion.

But she wasn't me.

I knew that because I'd never seen her before in my life.

And because she was smiling.

I hadn't smiled before coffee in at least seven years.

The Woman in My Kitchen

I called her.

She answered on the first ring.

"June?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Please don't hang up."

"That depends very much on your next sentence."

I heard her take a breath.

"I'm living your tomorrow."

I looked at my coffee.

Then at the half-empty carton of milk.

Then back at my phone.

"Did somebody put something in my breakfast?"

"I know how it sounds."

"Do you? Because right now you sound like a fortune cookie having a nervous breakdown."

She laughed.

Just once.

It was a real laugh, and somehow that made everything worse.

"Look," she said. "Open your refrigerator."

"Absolutely not."

"Please."

Against my better judgment, I opened it.

"There's a carton of orange juice on the second shelf," she said.

"Congratulations. You've discovered groceries."

"Check the expiration date."

November 18.

"And?"

"Tomorrow morning you're going to throw it away. Then you'll realize you've run out of milk and walk to the coffee shop on Mercer Street."

I frowned.

"How would you know that?"

"Because I've already done it."

"You're claiming to be from the future?"

"No," she said quietly. "I'm claiming somebody's already planned yours."

I glanced around my apartment.

Suddenly, everything looked suspicious.

Even the dancing potato.

Especially the dancing potato.

An Appointment I Never Made

The next message arrived twenty minutes later.

It was a screenshot of a calendar.

Friday, 9:17 AM.

HOME VISIT — SUBJECT 041

Beneath it were instructions.

Subject opens front door.

Unexpected visitor initiates conversation.

Subject expresses hesitation.

Emergency scenario begins.

And underneath:

EXPECTED RESPONSE: COMPLIANCE

I read it three times.

Then I called Nina again.

"What is this?"

"A rehearsal schedule."

"For what?"

"For your life."

I sat down.

Nina explained that she worked for a company called TomorrowWorks.

I'd heard of it.

Everyone had.

Their advertisements appeared between cooking videos, on billboards, inside mobile games.

MAKE BETTER DECISIONS BEFORE YOU MAKE THEM.

The company offered personalized predictions. It analyzed shopping habits, transportation routes, calendars, and everyday behavior to help people plan more efficiently.

I'd downloaded their free app six months earlier.

Mostly because it promised discounts on groceries.

I didn't remember using it after that.

"I signed up for a rewards program," I said.

"That was the beginning."

Nina's voice sounded tired.

"TomorrowWorks runs something called the Living Forecast Project. They build replicas of people's homes and hire performers to act out their predicted routines."

I looked at the photograph again.

"My kitchen?"

"Studio C. Set forty-one."

"And you're playing me?"

"For six weeks."

There are many things you hope never to hear from a stranger.

I've been pretending to be you for six weeks deserves a place near the top.

"Why?"

"Because the company wants to prove it can predict what people will do."

"Can it?"

"Sometimes."

"Then why rehearse everything?"

"Because prediction is easier when you can influence the outcome."

I didn't like that answer.

Not one bit.

The Problem With Being Predictable

Nina sent me more photographs.

My bedroom.

My couch.

My desk, complete with the enormous pile of unopened mail I'd been pretending didn't exist.

There was even a reproduction of a painting my sister had made in high school.

It was a landscape.

Technically.

If you were generous about the definition of landscape.

In the replica, the mountains were too blue.

That detail bothered me more than anything else.

Someone had studied my life carefully enough to copy it, but not enough to understand why I'd kept that terrible painting for fifteen years.

"How do they know all this?" I asked.

"Data. Some legally collected. Some purchased. Some they really shouldn't have."

"And what exactly do you do all day?"

"I get up when you get up. Drink what you drink. Follow your schedule."

I looked down at my cardigan.

"What about the clothes?"

"They provide those."

"Do they at least wash them?"

"June."

"Sorry. This is a lot."

Nina hesitated.

"There's something else."

Of course there was.

There was always something else.

"On Monday, your phone suggested taking a different route to work."

I remembered.

A notification had warned me about traffic on Oak Street.

So I'd taken the long way.

"That road wasn't closed," Nina said. "They needed you to pass a new coffee shop."

"The one offering free pastries?"

"Yes."

I had stopped there.

Bought a coffee.

Taken a loyalty card.

And gone back again on Wednesday.

Apparently, I was predictable enough to be controlled by a blueberry muffin.

"Why would they care where I buy coffee?"

"Because they're measuring how accurately they can steer your decisions."

I remembered the strange little suggestions I'd been receiving.

A reminder to call my mother.

A discount at the bookstore.

A recommendation to visit a park I'd never been to.

Harmless things.

Nice things, even.

Except now they felt less like suggestions and more like invisible hands turning me left and right.

"Tomorrow," Nina said, "they're moving into the next phase."

I looked at the calendar screenshot again.

"What's the emergency scenario?"

She didn't answer immediately.

Then she said, "That's why I contacted you."

Friday at 9:17

TomorrowWorks was preparing a demonstration for investors.

Their presentation would show a customer receiving an emergency warning before a dangerous situation developed.

The system would appear to predict a crisis and guide the customer to safety.

The customer was me.

"There's going to be a staged electrical emergency in your building," Nina explained.

I stood up so quickly that my chair hit the wall.

"Excuse me?"

"Someone will knock on your door. He'll claim he's there to inspect the wiring. A few minutes later, the building's fire alarm will activate."

"You're joking."

"I wish I were."

The plan, according to Nina, was to create a controlled smoke effect in a service area.

TomorrowWorks would send me an early warning, guiding me toward the rear exit.

Their cameras would record the response.

Then the company could present the footage as proof that its forecasting technology had saved someone from danger.

"That sounds spectacularly illegal."

"It probably is."

"Probably?"

"I'm an actress, June. Not a lawyer."

I almost laughed.

Almost.

"But you said not to open the door."

"Because I overheard two contractors arguing yesterday. One of them said the equipment wasn't approved for an occupied building."

I looked at the wall separating my apartment from my neighbor's.

Mrs. Alvarez lived next door.

She was seventy-eight, loved crossword puzzles, and regularly delivered homemade cookies despite claiming she hated baking.

On the floor above, a family had a baby who cried at approximately the same volume as a police siren.

This wasn't a movie set.

It was our home.

"Why not just tell the police?"

"I don't have access to the planning files anymore. They took my badge when I questioned the rehearsal."

"Then why would anyone believe you?"

Nina went quiet.

"I hoped you would."

For the first time since her call, I stopped thinking about the woman wearing my cardigan.

I started thinking about the woman who'd risked her job to warn someone she'd never met.

"Okay," I said. "Let's do something about it."

The Worst Plan in Human History

My original plan was simple.

I would pretend to know nothing, wait for the mysterious visitor, and expose the whole operation.

This plan lasted approximately four minutes.

Then I remembered that I was a graphic designer who once cried while assembling a bookshelf.

I was not, by any reasonable standard, qualified to conduct an undercover investigation.

So I called my building manager.

He thought I was joking.

Then I showed him the photographs.

His expression changed.

He checked the maintenance schedule.

There was no electrical inspection planned for Friday.

He contacted the fire department and forwarded the information I'd received. I also filed a police report and provided Nina's number.

By Thursday evening, the building's management had confirmed that no outside contractor had permission to enter.

I should have felt better.

Instead, I found myself staring at the clock.

Tomorrow was still coming.

And whoever had planned it knew where I lived.

At 10:42 PM, Nina called again.

"They know I contacted you."

"Are you okay?"

"For now."

"What happened?"

"They took me off the project."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"They also told me I signed a confidentiality agreement."

"Did you?"

"Probably. They gave me about forty documents on my first day."

"Why did you take the job?"

She was quiet for a moment.

"Because it paid well."

I waited.

"And because I was good at being other people."

There was something in her voice that made me stop preparing my next sarcastic remark.

"I've been acting since I was seventeen," she continued. "Mostly commercials. Background roles. A few plays nobody came to see."

"That sounds rough."

"Last year I worked in a commercial where I had to pretend to enjoy a sandwich."

"Was it good?"

"It was made of foam."

I laughed.

"Apparently, I'm convincing with foam. They hired me here because I could remember all the details."

Then her voice changed.

"But this stopped feeling like acting."

I looked again at the photograph of her in my kitchen.

"Why?"

"Because I knew your routines better than my own. I knew what you'd order for breakfast. Which calls you'd ignore. How long you'd stand by the window when you were worried."

I didn't say anything.

"And I began wondering what happened to all the things I might've done if I wasn't busy practicing your life."

That stayed with me.

I didn't have an answer.

So I said the only thing that felt useful.

"Well, for what it's worth, I think you'd look terrible in my green cardigan."

She laughed.

"You're right. It's not my color."

The Knock

Friday morning arrived with rain.

Not dramatic rain.

Not cinematic rain.

Just the annoying kind that makes your shoes wet and your hair look as though you've been personally insulted by the atmosphere.

At 8:50, my building manager called to say the fire department had been notified of the suspected stunt and that the rear entrance would be monitored.

He'd also warned the residents.

Mrs. Alvarez had responded by announcing that anyone entering her apartment without permission would be meeting her rolling pin.

I believed her.

At 9:05, I received another message from Nina.

NINA: Are you ready?

ME: No.

NINA: Fair.

ME: Still think I should get a dog.

NINA: That's a terrible time to adopt a dog.

ME: Emotional support.

NINA: Get a goldfish.

I smiled despite myself.

Then the clock changed.

9:16.

The hallway was silent.

I could hear rain tapping against the window.

My refrigerator hummed.

Somewhere upstairs, the baby began crying.

9:17.

Three knocks.

Exactly three.

I didn't move.

"Hello?" a man's voice called from outside. "Building maintenance. We need to check your electrical panel."

My stomach tightened.

I looked through the peephole.

A man in a dark jacket stood in the hallway holding a clipboard.

He looked perfectly ordinary.

Which, I've learned, is a very unhelpful quality when you're trying to identify suspicious people.

"Can you show me your authorization?" I asked through the door.

He looked annoyed.

"The manager should have told you."

"He did. That's why I'm asking."

There was a pause.

Then he glanced toward the stairs.

That was enough.

I called my building manager, who was waiting with the officers downstairs.

The man heard movement in the stairwell.

He stepped back.

A moment later, two uniformed officers came into view.

I couldn't hear everything they said.

But I heard the words unauthorized access and please come with us.

A second contractor was stopped near the service corridor.

The building's cameras had recorded both men entering.

The planned demonstration never happened.

No smoke.

No emergency.

No heroic rescue.

Just two very confused contractors, a collection of suspicious equipment, and Mrs. Alvarez emerging from her apartment with a rolling pin.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

One officer tried to explain.

She looked at the equipment.

Then at the men.

Then back at the officer.

"Do you want me to call my son?"

"No, ma'am. We've got it under control."

She narrowed her eyes.

"That's what my son says when he breaks something."

I almost hugged her.

The Tomorrow That Never Happened

Over the next few days, the police investigated the attempted unauthorized demonstration.

Nina gave a statement.

So did I.

The building manager handed over security footage.

TomorrowWorks released a carefully worded statement claiming that the project was an experimental simulation and that the company's management had not authorized the proposed activity.

I had no idea whether that was true.

What I did know was that the whole thing had been stopped before anyone got hurt.

Nina lost her job.

I offered to buy her coffee.

She suggested we meet somewhere with no corporate loyalty program.

Fair enough.

We chose a small diner on the other side of town.

When I arrived, she was already sitting by the window.

Seeing her in person was strange.

Not because she looked like me.

She didn't, really.

The photographs had been carefully staged. The clothes, the lighting, the glasses, the haircut.

Without them, she looked entirely different.

More alive.

More herself.

She stood up awkwardly.

"Hi."

"Hi."

There was a moment when neither of us knew whether to shake hands or hug.

We settled for a wave.

It was a terrible wave.

Two grown women, waving at each other from three feet away.

We burst out laughing.

Then we sat down.

A Life Without Rehearsal

The waitress approached our table.

"What can I get you?"

Nina opened her mouth.

"An oat milk latte, no sugar."

Then she stopped.

Her expression changed.

I recognized the order.

It was mine.

My usual.

The one she'd been drinking on set for six weeks.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Do you actually like oat milk?"

She looked at the menu.

"I don't know."

"Have you ever ordered anything else?"

"Not at work."

The waitress stood patiently beside us.

Nina stared at the drinks list.

A small smile appeared on her face.

"Can I have a hot chocolate?"

"Of course."

"With whipped cream?"

"Absolutely."

"And marshmallows?"

The waitress nodded.

Nina looked delighted.

"Then that."

I ordered coffee.

Normal coffee.

No predictions.

No behavioral recommendations.

Just two drinks.

For a while we talked about ordinary things.

Bad apartments.

Strange jobs.

Childhood pets.

The particular embarrassment of waving goodbye to someone and then realizing you're both walking in the same direction.

Nina told me she wanted to audition for a play.

I told her I was thinking about taking a vacation.

Somewhere without a schedule.

Somewhere I could wake up and decide what to do after breakfast.

"Sounds dangerous," she said.

"Extremely."

Then she looked at me.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"If you could know exactly what happens tomorrow, would you want to?"

A week earlier, I might have said yes.

I would've wanted to know which decisions were right, which opportunities were worth taking, which mistakes to avoid.

Who wouldn't?

But now I thought about all the little things that couldn't fit inside a prediction.

Mrs. Alvarez and her rolling pin.

Nina's terrible wave.

The fact that the woman who'd spent six weeks pretending to be me had never tasted hot chocolate with marshmallows.

Maybe knowing what came next wasn't always the same as living it.

"No," I said.

Nina smiled.

"Me neither."

The waitress returned with our drinks.

Nina took one sip.

Her eyes widened.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"Why have I been drinking oat milk?"

I laughed so loudly that three people turned around.

And for the first time since that message arrived on Thursday morning, I wasn't wondering what tomorrow would bring.

I was wondering whether to order pancakes.

So I did.

They were excellent.

Nina stole half.

Apparently, after six weeks of living my life, she still hadn't learned to keep her hands off my food.