The Last Sentence

Ethan Blake had already seen that woman in the red dress three times today. Time always seemed to fly as he sat in the coffee shop. It had been another productive day of writing. He had not actually written anything, but he would. He had had some brilliant brainstorms so far. As a writer he knew that writing was not only about putting words down on paper, sometimes spending a day thinking was good enough.  

There had been some real moments of inspiration, and he had even almost started a short story he had been thinking about. Ethan opted instead to mull it over some more, it had to be perfect before he put even one word down, any writer worth his salt knew that was the right way to go about it. 

Ethan took a sip of his coffee and opened his journal; it was here he wrote down anything that caught his eye. It had been a month since he jotted anything down, he had to be careful not to just put anything in there. One day when he became famous that same journal would be auctioned off, so it had to be perfect. 

There was a jingle and the draft from the door opening threw his napkins onto the floor. He reached over to pick them, slightly annoyed, he glanced up and gasped.  

Ethan Blake walked into the coffee shop. 

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, because of course he was Ethan Blake and unless his parents lied to him about being an only child, he did not have a twin brother walking around town. 

Still, though Ethan felt something remarkably familiar about him, it was unsettling. It was not so much the same sweater and trousers, which could happen, but something about the man’s face made Ethan almost certain he knew him. 

Snapping out of it, it suddenly dawned on him that this was the seeds for a great short story. It practically wrote itself.  

While at my favorite coffee shop authoring the next great American novel my doppelganger strolls in for a coffee. Ethan chuckled quietly, kicking himself that he let something so foolish bother him. 

Now what would the title be? 

Maybe “The Doppelganger”  

Nice! That was a great one. Ethan thought he had better start writing them down because there was sure to be a surge now that he had idea to write. He could finally tell the barista what he was working on, the constant questioning had begun to annoy him. Last week he had had a word with the young man's manager. He opened his book to write it... 

Or maybe “The Twin”  

Gold! He had to be sure before he put anything in the journal, this would be an important relic one day, after all. 

As Ethan deliberated between both great titles, out the corner of his eye he watched the man get his order and grab a seat in a quiet booth that placed his back to the window but in full view of Ethan and pull out a laptop and a tattered notebook. 

A journal?  

Similarities were one thing but this borderline ridiculous, Ethan Blake was enough writer for this coffee shop. 

The doppelganger (Ethan felt the name just stuck), opened his laptop to a document titled “Echoes in the Cafe”.  

Cheesy title, Ethan thought. He leaned over more and was able to read a bit of what appeared to be a novella in length. The word count was well over 30,000 as he saw it.  

For a cheesy title, Doppelganger sure had written a lot. 

Ethan scoffed and continued to read over the man's shoulder. 

No. 

It couldn't be. 

This story, Ethan thought, this is my story. I just thought about it just a few minutes ago and this guy already nearly had a short novel written. A familiar stranger walks into a coffee shop and then...  

Well, Ethan had not gotten any further than that, but it was still his story. This was criminal. This was theft. 

The doppelganger had started furiously typing, Ethan watched transfixed as words sprang to life on the pages. Those should be his words. Those were his pages. He could not stop staring. 

What the hell was going on here?  

Ethan’s feeling of unease went from queasy to full blown nausea.  he held his stomach. He patted his head. This had to be some kind of joke. The doppelganger even crossed his feet and leaned into the screen the same way as Ethan did when he typed. This was beyond uncanny.  

Ehtan shook his head. He couldn't shake the feeling man knew something. No matter, he had important work to get to. These novels won’t write themselves after all. Great quote. He had to remember to jot that down.  

Echoes in the cafe, Ethan thought to himself. Ok, maybe not so cheesy, he had to admit it did make for a decent title.  

A title was one thing, however, the plot, the prose was another. There was no way this man would be able to take the story in the direction it needed to go. Ethan was sure of that. 

Still, he couldn't rip his eyes away. The clattering of the keyboard resounded around the coffee shop like bullets ricocheting. Steady, powerful, complete. The man was so intently focused it was almost uncomfortable to watch. 

With immense willpower he tore his eyes away and turned to his own screen. The cursor blinked. Lonely. No words to fill the screen, no words to fill his journal.  

Click. 

Clack. 

Ethan whipped his head around. The man had not lost speed, in fact he seemed to be moving faster now. The words filled the screen at a blinding pace, his hands moved effortlessly. It may as well have been a baby grand piano with this man as the conductor, skillfully conducting a masterpiece. 

It was deafening. 

It really pissed Ethan off. 

He gripped the table, his knuckles white, and bit his lip, his face burning. He felt like he was being taken for a ride against his will. 

It took Ethan a minute to realize the concert had ended, the typing had stopped. 

Ethan stood and walked, almost in a daze, and as if being summoned over to the man. He stood at the edge of the man’s table, feeling the weight of his own hesitation. The man continued typing, the rhythmic clack clack clack of the keys drilling into Ethan’s skull.  

“Have we...have we met before?” Ethan said, voice trembling. 

Still, the man simply continued typing, no acknowledgement. Ethan might have as well have been just another table to rest a cup on. Seconds stretched into minutes, thick and heavy, Ethan stood there, his pulse quickening in his ears. 

“A passive question from a passive person, not at all the way a writer should approach.” 

The man said, not looking up. 

Ethan blinked. HIs mouth went dry. 

“Excuse me?” 

The doppelganger turned to him now, he moved in no hurry, and it was then for the first time Ethan saw the full intensity in his gaze. It was like looking into a dark mirror, the reflection true but warped somehow, darker. 

“I’d write it this way: Ethan approached the stranger, shoulders square, never breaking eye contact. ‘Where have we met before? The way an actual writer would.” 

Ethan flushed, a mix of anger and confusion, but truthfully mostly the latter. 

He scoffed. “I am a writer,” jabbing his finger toward his laptop and journal. “I’ve been working on several stories—just fine-tuning things, making sure they’re perfect.” 

Looking back at his screen, the doppelganger chuckled, humorless and pitying.  

“You cannot fool me, Ethan Blake. You are no writer.” 

This time Ethan recoiled as if he’d been hit, which would have been less painful at this point. It wasn't just the tone, confident and assured that what he said was true, that struck Ethan. There was a quiet finality, his words were packed tightly, without any room for doubt. 

Worse, how did he know my name? 

“I never told you, my name. How do you know it? Just who the hell are you?” He hated the panic that rounded out his voice but it was too late. 

The doppelganger's fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, up till this point he had not stopped typing, he slowly rested them on the table. He looked at Ethan, he was amused. 

“You still don’t know the right question. You still believe being a writer is a choice. Childish.” 

Ethan opened his mouth to respond, but there were no words. The calm scrutiny with which Ethan was being subjected, made him feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. Exposed. Every doubt he had buried, was being peeled back. He couldn’t steady himself, he tried to marshal a defense but anything he could think of would crumble under this ruthless assault. 

“You’ve not written a word since you’ve come here. Not one. You’re safe in your little bubble of “potential”, safe behind your ‘thinking about writing.’ But let me ask, Ethan, when does the writing happen?” 

His heart pounded; it sounded like a rushing tide in his head.  

“I...I have ideas. I’m working on--”  

“You’re working on nothing. You're hiding. You call yourself a writer, but you won’t even begin.” 

This was assault plain and simple. Each word was a punch in the gut, chipping away at any understanding Ethan may have had of himself. His legs shook, but he forced himself to stand firm. 

“Who the hell do you think you are? You’re writing my story! It’s mine! You have no right--”  

“I’m Ethan Blake. The version of you that finishes what he starts.”, he said his voice barely a whisper. 

Ethan opened his mouth to retort, but his voice caught in his throat. His mind raced; he needed to hold onto anything that still made sense. Anything. He was sinking. 

“You’re Ethan Blake? What does that mean? You think you’re better than me?” Ethan replied through gritted teeth. 

The doppelganger leaned back, crossing his arms. He said nothing.  

After a beat he shrugged, “Yes, I am better than you. I’m not afraid.” 

He leaned forward now holding Ethan in his gaze once more, he whispered. 

“You spend hours in this coffee shop posing as a writer. But you’ve done nothing. Look.” 

He gestured toward the empty screen of Ethan’s laptop. 

“I have so many drafts and finished manuscripts I’ve run out of space to put it all. Pages filled with words. I am here to write, and nothing else. And you?”  

He shook his head, “You’re a failure afraid of his own mediocrity. 

Completely undone, Ethan stammered. 

“I don't understand.”, Ethan said. 

The doppelganger took a breath, leaning back in his seat, he crossed his arms. They were normal movements but had the feeling of finality. 

“There is nothing to understand. There is only writing. And you?”  

Ethan was held in his gaze, imprisoned. 

“You’re nothing but a bystander.” 

Ethan felt the floor open and there would be no returning. The doppelganger turned back to his laptop now, disinterested.  

“If you can’t understand that we have nothing to talk about.”  

Ethan’s shoulders slumped; the doppelganger last words echoed in his mind. It gnawed at him down to his very core. There was no denying, this man, this thing in front of him, had stripped him bare. 

And yet, as the silence settled, something slowly surfaced, something long forgotten. 

He had met him before. 

Not here. Not in this coffee shop. Not physically anyway. But in every moment of Ethan’s life when he had dreamed of being great. When he had first held the worn copy of his favorite author’s novel in his hands as a boy, feeling the weight of the words and worlds. Every moment he had sat at his desk, ideas swirling while his fingers hesitated. He had been there. 

Ethan’s eyes widened as the truth of it hit him, piece by piece. Every time he thought he could be like one of the greats but did nothing. He had been there. 

He hadn't met him before; he was always meeting him. 

The realization flooded through Ethan. He'd spent so much time in this shadow, this twisted mirror of what his life should look like. Whenever he had skirted the edges of writing the doppelganger waited. Watched. 

Ethan staggered back clutching chest, breathing ragged. This was the Ethan that finished. He flashed back to every idea, every notebook he filled, every half-formed story that died on 

the vine. He remembered the boy he once was, in awe of what could be of the worlds he could create.  

When had he drifted off that path? 

He wanted to finish. He needed to finish.  

Something. 

Anything. 

Ethan sat at his laptop again. Fingers hovered over the keys. The cursor on the screen quietly blinked back at him, but this time it felt different. It wasn’t threatening, it waited.  

His hands inched closer, he glanced at the doppelganger and on his screen, he typed, “Ethan finally resolved, I WILL finish.” 

Ethan’s hands found the letters, the letters found the words.