Write a story

There's somebody standing in the corner of my room.

I think they're me.

I mean, she - think it's a she, the lines are fuzzy - looks like me. A bit, anyway. She looks how I could be. Maybe how I should be. But she keeps flickering and altering - maybe she's just a potential me.

Or maybe she's all the potential mes.

I step closer to her - I can't tell, not really, that expression keeps shifting, but she seems to be happy about it, I think there's a smile (more smiles than frowns, anyway).

I open my mouth to ask her a question, but she shakes her head - that much I can discern. No questions, then. No talking. Just...standing.

I hold a hand to her - my? - cheek. The skin is smooth (mostly), everchanging, quicksilver that seems to take on my fingerprints. Mercurial and chameleon, she shifts and alters. Am I changing her, or is she changing herself?

It's probably more complex than that.

I want to ask her why she's here, how she's here - if she really is me. But I already know the answers to those questions, I just don't want to think about it.

She's the future that I may or may not have.

She took my hand at some point, and now she's gently squeezing it, and I think she's looking at me, most of the time. She won't stay the same.

I could be so many things.

She kisses the top of my head, and I can see it all - I can see all that it could be, all that I could be.

Maybe it isn't too late.