A borrowed name—
Worn for a day,
But never quite fitting.
1. The Man Who Was Almost Someone Else (Buenos Aires, 2003)
He watched the same man every evening. Always at the far end of the bar, always with a glass of whiskey that never seemed to empty. The way he carried himself—an air of quiet certainty, like he had already lived the life he wanted.
One night, he put on his best jacket and walked into the bar. Sat in the same spot. Ordered the same drink. Tried on the same quiet confidence.
For a while, it worked.
The bartender poured without asking questions. A woman at the next table glanced at him, just briefly. The room seemed to settle around him differently.
But then the whiskey burned too sharp. The silence pressed in too close. The borrowed ease felt unnatural in his bones.
Before finishing his drink, he placed the glass down and walked out. He loosened his collar, let his shoulders slump, and felt like himself again.
Maybe the man at the bar had looked at someone else once and wondered the same thing.
Maybe everyone did.
2. The Suit That Didn’t Fit (Oslo, 2015)
It was the kind of café where people knew your name if you stayed long enough. But he never stayed. He only watched.
Every morning, a man in a navy-blue suit sat by the window, drinking his espresso with the precision of someone who never rushed. A newspaper folded beside him. A leather briefcase by his feet. He never seemed distracted, never seemed lost.
One day, he borrowed that life.
He bought a suit, walked into the café, and took a seat by the window. Ordered an espresso. Opened a newspaper, even though he barely skimmed the words. For the first hour, he fooled himself.
Then the tight collar began to itch. The coffee tasted too bitter. The words on the page blurred into nothing.
The suit felt like a costume.
By noon, he stood up, left the café, and pulled the tie from his neck as soon as he stepped outside.
He walked home in his usual hoodie and worn-out sneakers. The city felt softer that way.
3. The Stranger in the Reflection (Kyoto, 2029)
The hotel lobby smelled of polished wood and quiet luxury. He was not a guest, but for a day, he pretended to be.
A businessman checked in, exchanging polite words with the receptionist. His movements were deliberate. Sharp. Effortless.
He followed the man into the elevator. Pressed a random floor. Walked the halls lined with soft golden lights. He stepped into the lounge, ordered a drink, and settled into the quiet hum of conversation.
For an hour, he lived inside the skin of another. Someone sure. Someone important. Someone who belonged.
Then, in the mirrored wall, he caught sight of himself.
Something was off. The posture. The stillness. The way he held the glass as if it might break.
It wasn’t his reflection that felt unfamiliar.
It was him.
He left without finishing his drink. Walked the long way home, past neon signs and lantern-lit alleyways.
By the time he reached his apartment, he had returned to himself.
The Lives We Try On
You can slip into another life, but you can’t make it yours.
What you admire in others is often something already within you.
Being sure of yourself is not as important as being real.
Belonging is not in how you dress, speak, or move—it is in how you accept yourself.
The best life you can live is the one only you can live.
The Window, the Suit, the Man Who Stayed
The next morning, he passed by the café, the bar, the hotel.
The men were still there, still moving through their lives. But he no longer wanted to step into their world.
Maybe, just maybe, someone had looked at him once and thought the same thing.
Maybe everyone was just searching for the life that finally fit.
life 
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