Do You Believe in Parallel Universes?

It’s a fifteen-minute walk to the Foggy Bottom Metro. The wind stings my cheeks, but the crisp air is a welcome break from hours of reading, endless lectures, and the typical stress that comes with being a law student. The bare trees, gray skies, and biting cold define D.C. in January, yet the streets remain bustling with people.

As I descend the escalator into the metro station, I find myself behind a school group. Thankfully, there are no delays, and I only wait seven minutes for my train. The harsh fluorescent lights assault my eyes as I board. Despite the available seats, I choose to stand, leaving them for others less accustomed to the jolts and bumps of the ride.

Approaching the Smithsonian American Art Museum, its imposing Greek pillars tower overhead. Once inside, my attention is immediately captured by a sculpture titled Rouse by Alison Saar. A woman crowned with antlers, carrying a human figure entangled in her horns, stands on a pile of discarded antlers. I wonder about the artist’s message—a statement on poaching, perhaps, or a metaphor for the destruction of our planet. The pale figure suggests violence or exploitation, her blood drained and wasted.

As I continue through the gallery, something unusual catches my eye: a statue titled Mysterious Traveler. The figure, a grotesquely thin man with reptilian features, dates back to 2600 BC, was unearthed near the pyramids and brought here in 1939. It strikes me as odd that it’s displayed among American art. Without thinking, I reach out to touch the figure—its texture is rough like sand, yet solid like marble. A sudden, high-pitched ringing pulls me from my trance. I recoil, startled by my actions, quickly glancing around the room, relieved no one seems to have noticed my lapse in judgment.

Still disoriented, a young woman seems to materialize beside me, as if out of nowhere. With a cascade of mahogany curls framing her face, she smiles directly at me.

“This guy’s pretty intense, huh?” I say gesturing toward the eerie statue, awkwardly attempting conversation. “But I don’t get why it’s in the American Art Museum.”

“Well, an American archaeologist discovered it. We were just reading about this,” she says. “It was excavated in the 1930s and kept in New Mexico for a while. It's been said to be cursed.”

The information is on the placard right in front of her, though it says nothing about a curse. “I think I read that somewhere,” I say, gesturing toward the sign.

“Sure, there too, obviously.” she quips. “But didn’t we cover this in one of our classes? Maybe art history with Thompson or world history with Rennick?”

“I don’t remember seeing you in any of my history classes, and I’ve never taken art history.”

“Well, I remember you,” she says flashing a radiant smile and extending her hand. “Stella Donnelly.”

“Nice to meet you, Stella. Matteo Herrera—but everyone calls me Tey.”

I don’t recognize her name, and I’m certain I’d remember her if we’d had any classes together. She’s exquisite. Her eyes are a swirling blend of grey and green reminiscent of the ocean before a storm. I'm captivated by her wide smile, full lips, and flawless complexion. She's not covered in makeup, and there’s no need; she’s naturally beautiful.

“Hey, want to grab a bite at the Courtyard Café?” she asks. “I feel like I could use a sugar boost.”

“Sure,” I say, grateful for the invitation. “I was planning to head there anyway to study, but I could use a snack.”

As we head toward the café, something odd catches my eye: the blue leather seats in the portrait gallery. I could’ve sworn they’d always been green. I chalk it up to the lighting but ask Stella to confirm.

“They’ve always been blue,” she says, nodding confidently.

“Am I losing it?” I murmur, unease creeping in.

“Probably,” she laughs.

The Kogod Courtyard Café is my sanctuary. Its vast glass ceiling lets in sunlight, creating the illusion of being outside while sheltering us from the cold. I usually come here to study, but now I’m too distracted to concentrate.

“So, besides museums, what else do you do for fun?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Mostly sex, drugs, and debauchery,” she answers with a mischievous smile, her tone playful. “But also painting and volunteering at animal shelters.”

“Gotta balance out the debauchery with community service, huh? Are you an art major?”

“I wish. My parents wouldn’t pay for my education unless I chose something ‘sensible,’ so I’m in journalism. What about you?”

“I’m pre-law. Not much help from my family though—mostly scholarships.”

“That’s what my parents wanted me to do. They're both attorneys, but I’ve never aspired to be like them. They're constantly overworked and miserable. It just seems like such a banal existence.

“Yikes. Tell me how you really feel,” I utter, unsure how to respond to her bluntness.

I can't help it feel self-conscious over her comment. I surmise she would find me to be boring too and she wouldn't be wrong. Then again, she could’ve walked away but here we are sitting at a table together and she's all smiles.

She laughs, then continues, “You should’ve seen their reaction when I told them I was modeling for a drawing class. You’d think I said I was prostituting myself for heroin.”

“At least you have your parents. Mine died in a car accident when I was six. My abuela raised me.”

“Wow, I’m sorry. You must think I’m a real shit complaining about my family.”

“It’s fine. Every family has their struggles.”

“Wanna see my very useless secret talent?” Stella asks, in what I assume is a blatant ploy to segue the conversation into a lighter direction.

“Umm — yes!” I respond, with probably too much enthusiasm. “Although once you show me, it’ll no longer be a secret.”

“Well, it’s semi-secret. Hardly anyone knows because I only show really cool people,” She says as she nervously bites her bottom lip, her tone flirtatious. 

“How can you tell someone is really cool when you’ve only just met?”

“Because I’m a phenomenal judge of character. Seriously, it’s unparalleled.” She says with a smirk. “Now do you want to see it or not?”

“Yes Please.” 

She proceeds to stand up. Leaning her arms on the table, she bends them in such a way that the inside of her elbow is jutting out. My first thought is “Ouch” until I see her arms are rail-thin, bordering on skeletal. I begin to worry about her well-being, desperately hoping she doesn’t have an eating disorder. If I ever brought her home for dinner, Abuela would say she was too skinny. Then she’d surely be scooping extra helpings onto her plate.

“Does that hurt?” I ask.

“Nope. Double jointed,” she laughs. “Pretty gross though, eh?”

“Not at all. It just looks painful. I think my arms would snap if I tried to do that!”

“When I was younger, kids used to cover their eyes and act all disgusted when I showed them,” she admits with an unapologetic shrug.

“What?” I remark, my tone laced with mock astonishment. “I think it’s kinda sexy! How many people have you shown? I thought it was a secret talent.”

“Semi-secret, remember?”

“Right, right. If you ask me, I think it’s a pretty impressive skill. Those kids were probably seething with envy.”

“Oh my God, you’re an idiot!” She laughs and I can’t stop grinning. This girl is so damn beautiful and I’m captivated by her laughter. I’m downright giddy and I can’t refrain from staring at her. Her bright wide smile reveals both her top and bottom teeth and deep dimples.

Our conversation flows naturally after that. We talk about everything—our favorite books, embarrassing moments, dreams for the future. Time slips away, and before we know it, the café is closing.

As we leave, I dread the thought of saying goodbye so I ask her if she wants to stay and check out some of the new exhibits. I’ve never felt such an intense connection to someone. Walking through the museum again, we end up back at the eerie statue where it all began. Another high-pitched tone rings out, and the air feels strange. At once my head is throbbing, I’m dizzy and nauseous, and my vision begins to tunnel.

Stella’s overalls have inconceivably transformed into a long dress with a moon-phase pattern. My mind reels. There’s no way she could’ve changed without me noticing. And suddenly, she looks curvier. It’s absurd.

The ringing grows louder. Everything feels wrong, disconnected. I'm either going to pass out or puke—possibly both.

I need fresh air. “I’m not feeling well,” I say abruptly.

Stella reaches up and gently kisses my forehead. I pull away, confused by the intimacy of the gesture. I notice a ring on her finger, identical to the one my abuela wears. Impossible. It's a family heirloom passed down through generations. How could this girl possibly possess the same one?

“You don't feel warm.” Her soft voice says. “but you're white as a sheet. Let’s go home and get you into bed.”

“Are you my mom?” I ask, and I can’t explain why. I’m just that disoriented.

“Your mom? Baby, I think you're delirious. Let’s go home.” She says, concern evident in the furrow of her brow. Thrusting my arm over her shoulder, we head toward the exit.

Outside, it’s hot, and everything is green. I’m in shorts and a T-shirt, though I remember wearing a hoodie and jeans. We walk toward a parking garage. “Wait, where are we going?” I demand.

“You drove here,” she says calmly. “I’ll drive home.”

But I remember taking the subway. This makes no sense.

In the car, she looks at me with deep concern. “I need to go back to my dorm and sleep this off. Please take me back to Harbin.

“You haven’t been in Harbin for a year now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're scaring me, Tey! We’ve been living off campus for over a year.” She exclaims. “Then last month we moved into a new place. We needed more space for when the baby comes and if you really can’t remember any of this, maybe we should drive to the hospital instead.

“What baby?” I shout.

Her eyes pool with tears. My heart races as everything unravels around me.

I feel like an asshole but I’m terrified of what’s happening to me.

“If you want to drive, fine! Just please take me home. I didn’t have a stroke. I’m not slurring, am I? Does my face look droopy or paralyzed in any way?” I ask, trying to sound rational but I'm panicking hard.

“No.” She replies.

“It’s probably just stress and lack of sleep,” I suggest, unsure if I’m trying to convince her or myself.

“Well, you have been burning the candle at both ends, but we are not letting this go! You might be having a mental breakdown, or something physical could be wrong. What if you have a brain tumor? Until you see a doctor and get some tests done, we won’t know.”

“I’ll call the doctor first thing tomorrow,” I promise. “They can run any tests they want. But for now, can you please just take me home?”

“Yeah, okay,” she agrees, though her voice carries the weight of defeat.

We pull up to a brownhouse apartment on a quiet street. I have no recollection of ever being here but somehow, this is where I live now. We might as well be walking into the twilight zone.

Stella holds my keys as we approach the second door, and sure enough, there’s a key on my ring that fits the lock.

The first thing I notice when we step inside is the air—it smells clean, with a hint of citrus. It smells like her. The furniture is sleek and modern. Everything about this place feels both foreign and familiar. There’s a sense of comfort that almost feels like home, yet I can’t recall a single moment of it.

My eyes land on the photos lining the walls—Stella, me, Abuela. There’s one of us at a family gathering, me holding Stella close, my arm wrapped around her waist while she laughs, her face glowing with happiness. Even Abuela looks delighted, which brings a fleeting smile to my face. But it’s not me. Or rather, it’s a version of me I don’t recognize. I rub my hands over my face, trying to make sense of it all. How can I feel so disconnected from my own life?

“Why don’t you head upstairs and lie down? I’ll bring you some tea.”

I go to the bedroom and start opening drawers, searching for something familiar. The third one down is full of my T-shirts. The fourth holds my jeans and sweatpants. It’s unnerving. These are my clothes, but I feel like I’m rifling through someone else’s belongings. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, unsure which side of the bed is mine.

Stella enters with a steaming cup, and the scent of Lemon Zinger—my favorite—fills the room.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she reminds me.

“Which side is mine?”

She places the tea on the bedside table opposite where I’m standing. “Sweetie, take whichever side you want. I just want you to get some rest.” I collapse onto the plush mattress. She sits down next to me. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to scare you either. My things are here, there are happy photos of us, and it’s clear you care for me. But I have no memories of you—of us—none. I’m freaking out. And what about my courses? If can’t recall what I’ve been learning, what am I supposed to do?”

“We’ll figure it out,” she says softly, taking my hand in hers and gently running her thumb over the skin between my thumb and forefinger. Her touch sends chills up my arms, and my whole body tingles. I know she’s trying to comfort me, but my body response has me wanting to do things to her. I could ravage her right now, but that would be wrong. I think. I attempt to shift my thoughts elsewhere. Everything is a blur, but my mind keeps circling back to that exhibit. Everything strange started happening after I touched it.

“What were you saying about that statue having powers?” I ask.

“I remember reading something about it in one of our classes, but it was just a myth. Why?”

“Right before we met, I felt drawn to that statue. I don’t normally touch museum exhibits, but I didn’t even realize what I was doing—it felt like something was compelling me. What if that thing somehow transported me to the future or something? I don’t know how else to explain this.”

“You think you traveled through time?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Time wasn’t the only thing that seemed off. There were other details—things time wouldn’t necessarily change, like the color of those benches. You said they’ve always been blue, but I swear they were green. Do you believe in parallel universes?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I know it sounds insane. You must think I’m crazy. I’m usually rational to a fault but I simply can’t shake this feeling that I was somehow pulled out of my reality and dropped into another.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, but I was standing right next to you and didn’t experience any of that. I’m worried it’s something serious, like a brain issue. Call a doctor, please! I’ll stay with you every step of the way. If you need to take a break from school, then that’s what you’ll do. But Matteo, this could be serious. It can’t wait.” Stella’s voice cracks, her fear palpable.

She starts crying, and I know she’s terrified. Not wanting to upset her anymore, I make another promise to call in the morning. She rests her head on my shoulder, and I can't fathom why everything with her feels so natural. I run my fingers through her curls, kissing the top of her head, trying to soothe her. She turns to face me, edging closer. I gasp as her lips brush my neck, my jaw, and then my mouth, igniting something deep inside me. My self-control hangs by a thread, but I manage to pull away.

“Is this okay?” I whisper.

“Well, I’m already knocked up. How much more damage can you do?” she laughs, and our teeth collide as she kisses me again. She slides my sweatpants down. I position myself over her. When I remove her dress, I’m astonished by all her curves. Her arms had looked so frail earlier but they look healthy now. At that thought, I let out a sigh of relief. I notice the small, subtle bump—life growing within her. Gently, I place my hands on her stomach.

“He hasn’t started kicking yet,” she says.

“He?” I ask, intrigued.

“Or she.”

“Mine?”

“Of course,” she replies. “I hate that you can’t remember any of this.”

“God, I wish I could. You have no idea,” I say, feeling the weight of the unknown.

A whirlwind of emotions swirls in my mind. I’m anxious about school, confused about my life, terrified of impending parenthood—but also strangely turned on by the fact that a part of me is growing inside of her. It's awakening something primitive inside of me. I kiss her belly, lingering for a moment, taking her all in. Then I kiss my way back up to her lips. Despite the chaos in my head, when she pulls me in, everything feels right, yet I'm being torn in two. I fear that I may never find my way back to my real life while simultaneously afraid that I will and then I’ll lose her forever. I think I’m in love with her and that's the most terrifying thought of all. Loving someone also means opening my heart up to the pain of loss and I’ve endured enough of that already. I consider that after experiencing something I once would have thought impossible, perhaps anything is possible.