The car rolled down the dirt road, leaving the Burger-Hut and the green steppe behind, until the horizon shifted into something eerily familiar. Streets, houses, even the battered shop signs—everything looked like their city. Only the twin suns in the sky betrayed that this wasn't home.
Sophie drove, her fingers drumming the wheel, while David leaned back in his seat, trying to make sense of this warped reality.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, staring at the familiar bookstore on the corner. "Everything's just like home, except… two suns. If your witchcraft doesn't drive me insane first, I swear I'll write a paper on parallel worlds. Maybe even win a Nobel Prize—if we ever get back. What are we supposed to do here? Will we ever leave? Or is this it?"
Sophie's lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm scared too, love. But let's worry about that tomorrow. Right now we need somewhere to sleep. Do our apartments exist in this world? If they do, are our doubles living there? Or do we check into a hotel? At least the card works."
They turned onto a street David knew by heart and pulled up in front of the old brick building where he rented his tiny flat. He slipped a hand into his pocket for the keys, still half-expecting them not to fit. But the lock clicked, the door swung open, and they stepped into a hallway that was painfully familiar: the same scuffed wooden floors, the same shelves stacked with books, the faint smell of coffee and old paper. Even Sophie's mug—left behind on the table before their mountain trip—was still there.
"This is your apartment?" Sophie asked, her brows rising as her gaze swept the room. "Even the crack in the ceiling is the same. Creepy… but kind of amazing."
"Should we check your place?" David asked, tossing his keys onto the table.
"Not tonight," she yawned, stretching. "I'm showering and then collapsing."
David chuckled, fatigue tugging at him too. He stripped off his clothes, tossed them in the washer, and fell onto the bed. Sleep dragged him under before Sophie even finished in the bathroom.
Later that night Sophie stirred awake. A strange glow slipped through the curtains. She turned toward the window and froze.
The smaller sun—the orange one—was peering inside.
She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Three a.m.
"What the hell?" she whispered. "Sunrise at three?"
She yanked the curtains tighter, but the light still pressed against the fabric. Sleep was gone. Wrapping herself in a blanket, she sat in the chair and watched David as he slept.
Without his glasses, he looked defenseless—his brow creased by that vertical frown line, cheekbones sharp, his long neck exposed. She had stopped believing in reality long before they ever crossed into another universe. Each day with him still felt like a miracle.
When she looked at him, everything became heightened: the sunlight brighter, the wind gentler, music richer, textures sharper. Her bag softer, her pencil sharper, the chalk he wrote with more fragile. Even a bird's caw outside the window sounded melodic, and her own body felt alive to the touch, goosebumps rising at the faintest brush of her own fingers.
She no longer had to wait for his lectures, no longer had to hover outside his office just for a glimpse. He was here, always. How had that happened?
Surely she wasn't the only student who'd fallen for him. There must have been dozens, swooning over the brilliant, handsome professor. Yet somehow, he noticed her. All her efforts hadn't been in vain, humiliating as they sometimes felt—chasing his gaze, craving scraps of attention.
Sometimes she had even sat in on lectures not meant for her group, hiding in the back rows just to hear him again. He spoke of philosophers as though their ideas were living truth, weaving logic so convincingly that each theory felt absolute. And then, next week, he'd offer a completely different truth—just as passionately.
This man—so resistant to manipulation, propaganda, or cheap marketing tricks—was hers. Outwardly restrained, inwardly burning. Willing to kneel before her, to carry her through madness, to revel in her reckless adventures. Not just willing—he enjoyed it. He looked at her as if lightning coursed through his veins, as if she alone made him want to fly.
And what if he ever realized she wasn't as bold, as honest, as extraordinary as he thought? The doubt rose—then she smiled. No. She was exactly who she was. Being herself was enough.
Maybe he was right. Maybe she really was special. The orange sun clawing at their curtains seemed proof enough. Perhaps others didn't feel the world this way at all—living secondhand lives, postponing their existence, or pining for a past that was never as golden as they imagined. Maybe only she and David understood how finite every moment truly was.
If so, no wonder they had been pulled into this strange universe.
David stirred, eyes fluttering open.
"You're mine," Sophie whispered.
He smiled drowsily at the familiar phrase. But as he woke fully, he noticed the glow seeping through the curtains, glanced at the clock, then back at her.
Four a.m. And the world outside was blazing bright.
Frowning, Professor Miller reached for his glasses, slipping them on with quiet determination. Naked but armed with clarity, he looked ready to dissect this impossible reality.
Sophie pressed her bare chest against his back, wrapping him in a fierce embrace. He froze, savoring the warmth of her touch.