I’m getting pretty good at this.

“Oh shit, the flue,” I mutter to myself, remembering in time.

“All right, I’m going to borrow some comfy clothes. Cool?” says Kiera, walking into the bedroom.

“Cool!” I say with a little too much enthusiasm, making up for any involuntary unkind thoughts. “I’ll change too.” I dust off my hands and stand in front of the hearth, where a fire is now roaring.

I follow her and pull open the wardrobe, grabbing for a specific hanger.

Kiera pulls a big T-shirt out of the small dresser, singing, “The hounds of love are hunting” in a low Kate Bush imitation. She stops when she sees me. “What’s wrong?”

I point limply at the wardrobe. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Give it a go. But I swear to God if you tell me Narnia’s back there—”

“No, no.” I laugh. “I was getting something to change into and somehow I knew exactly where these would be.”

“You wear them constantly. I’m not surprised. It’s muscle memory.”

“Yes, but my muscles have different memories.”

There’s a silence between us as she decides whether or not to humor me and my wild story.

“Right.” She looks at the ratty old sweatpants. “Did you still have them in your … other life? And keep them on a hanger like a psycho there too?”

“Yeah, that’s what’s so bizarre—the holes and everything are in the same places.” I hold them up. “It’s spooky. Like, what, no matter what I would have worn them in the same way? I don’t know. It’s weird.”

The part of my mind that has still in no way accepted everything that seems to be going on screams, NO SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?!

The other part of my mind, the weirdly chill part that has adapted and can’t help but keep living, walking, breathing, eating, sleeping, says, We Sliding Doors-ed ourselves, that’s all; it’s totally cool and normal. These things happen!

“Well, if you’ve worn them in two different lives it explains why they look like such shite. They are comfortable, I’ll give you that,” she says. “Good to know that in any given world, you still wear those hideous things. No wonder you can’t be talked out of them.”

She reaches into the wardrobe and pulls a pair of bike shorts down from the top shelf.

She takes off her jacket and button-down, her side to me, undressing down to her bra. She’s clearly not self-conscious in front of me. For a moment I think it’s unusually comfortable, but then remember that she saw me three days ago, two days ago, yesterday, and today.

It’s only me who’s known her for a matter of hours.