A Day With All My Selves (I hate of all of them)

A final, deep breath fills his lungs, steady and deliberate. He turns the doorknob slowly, feeling the cool metal against his palm, and steps out into the hallway. It's peak January in the city, that brutal time when winter digs its claws deepest, and even his new branded coat, a costly one at that, offers no real shield from the cold seeping through the cracks. The fabric is sleek, imported, the kind that screams status in muffled tones, but right now it feels as thin as paper against the chill. At least he looks cool in it. That's something. In a world that demands perfection on the surface, appearances are the last currency he can afford to lose.

The lift greets him with a dead, unlit button. He glares at it, hoping disappointment might spark some hidden circuit, but it remains unresponsive. Fine. Four floors to climb. His legs can ache later on the bus. He adjusts his bag and descends the stairs, the concrete steps echoing faintly under his boots.

Descending the stairs, he passes three strangers, all absorbed in their own worlds, heads down and steps in sync. In this concrete hive, connections are scarce, with no nods or glances exchanged. Midway down the second floor, the air thickens with the scent of yesterday's cooking oil, and his pulse unexpectedly spikes.

Then he sees her from Room 312, emerging from the shadows below, her dark hair tied back, coat zipped. He can’t express his feelings; vulnerability is not for him in this building. His heartbeat races, panic rising despite the chill, as a cold sweat breaks out on his neck.

Right foot taps the floor once, a subtle anchor. Shoulders square up rigidly. Three slow breaths drawn in through the nose, out through the mouth. Jaw loosens deliberately, muscles unclenching one by one.

It's the routine every school in the country drills into you from the earliest days, etched into muscle memory like a survival code: Reset to neutral. Reset to safe. Neutral faces, safe interactions, emotions buried where they can't erupt into clones that complicate everything.

By the time she reaches him on the landing, his face is blank enough to pass any inspection, a mask of polite indifference. Hers mirrors it perfectly, oh so calm, so empty, eyes forward like she's navigating a fog. The standard morning script unfolds between them, mechanical and rehearsed:

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

No smile cracks the facade. No flicker of anything real. Just two masks brushing past each other in the dim stairwell, close enough to catch the faint floral note of her shampoo, gone in an instant.

The moment she's gone, descending out of sight, he exhales very quietly, carefully, forcing his focus back to the day ahead. His hands unclench at his sides. He's late for the bus that will take him into the city's chaos.

Icy rain slaps him in the face as he steps outside, sharp like needles. Of course, the universe shows no mercy. He curses under his breath in Hindi, then rushes back for the forgotten umbrella.

The ten-minute walk to the bus stand feels like a dazed stroll through familiar streets, where a city’s heaven and hell exist close together. One alley buzzes with chai stalls and laughter, while another reeks of despair, a stray dog limping through puddles. Today feels heavier, an unshakable dread weighing him down. The cold gnaws at his fingers, and a heavy stone sits behind his ribs. At the bus stand, he joins other shadow souls in silence, no words exchanged—just muted existence.

Then a shout rips through the air: “Move!”

Before he can even turn his head, a bicycle rams straight into his knee with brutal force. Metal on bone, so sharp, so merciless it whites out his vision for a split second. He crashes down onto the wet pavement, clutching the injured leg as pain floods hot and immediate, impossible to swallow or ignore. Stars burst behind his eyelids.

He glares up at the rider through watering eyes. Blank face staring down. No apology offered. No guilt flickering across those features. Just the world's default stare boring right through him, dismissive and eternal. Something deep inside snaps like a frayed wire.

“Can't you even see where you're going, you arsehole?!”

Instant silence descends. The crowd freezes solid, only short, sharp inhales rippling through like wind over water. The collective breath people take before the mess unfolds, before clones appear. His stomach plummets into freefall.

Oh no. No, no, please, not today. Clean for months. The thought loops desperately. Too late.

A shimmer flickers beside him in the rain-slick air. One… two… three. Split.

It's like mitosis gone wrong, a cell dividing in anger. He lies on the wet ground, everyone watching, anticipating chaos. Suddenly, a perfect clone materialises, fury etched on his face, preparing to strike the rider.

Inside his head, a traitorous cheer rises: Flatten his face, make him pay. But reality hits: chaos, police, court dates, a ruined future. He lunges, grabbing the clone's arm just before the punch lands. The rider vanishes into the crowd, while onlookers quickly return to their phones.

Now it's just him and his angry clone in the relentless rain, waiting for the bus, dignity in tatters.

The bus growls up finally, engine rumbling loud enough to slice through the downpour like a chainsaw. Escape, at last.

“Be calm. Just one minute,” he mutters to the clone under his breath, like he's taming a toddler infused with steel-rod strength and zero impulse control.

They join the queue shuffling forward. Two identical bodies, one fractured soul, public humiliation trailing behind like exhaust fumes.

He swipes his card at the entrance, beep confirming payment. The conductor eyes him curiously, then flicks to the clone standing rigid beside.

“Two fares,” he says quickly, forcing a half-smile. “One for me, one for my emotional baggage.”

A couple of passengers snort behind them, muffled laughs breaking the tension. The conductor doesn't blink, just nods flatly. Just another split day in the city, where emotions manifest and public transport adapts.

He nudges the clone toward a window seat, the safest containment zone with glass barriers on three sides. Collapses beside him, soaked to the bone, exhausted before the day even starts properly.

A voice floats from the seat ahead, prim and piercing. An old lady with hair in a tight bun, posture glass-sharp enough to slice paper.

“Not even 8 a.m., and you've already cloned yourself. Wish you a great day ahead, dear.”

The clone jerks up instantly, veins bulging. “I'll show you a great day, you walking fossil.”

“NO.” He grabs the clone's arm, yanking him back down with every ounce of strength left, arm locked across the chest like a makeshift seatbelt. The old lady doesn't flinch, just adjusts her saree calmly. She's seen worse, lived through worse eras of unrest.

“Neutral. Safe. Neutral. Safe.” The mantra repeats through gritted teeth, chanted all the way through the bumpy ride over potholes and traffic snarls, like he's house-training a violent pet straining at the leash.

The bus squeals to a stop at his destination eventually. The clone is at least pretending to behave now, shoulders marginally less hunched. His office looms ahead. Where the real chaos patiently waits.

The office doors open with their usual plastic rasp, resentful and mechanical, the sound of a place that hates you but still needs your labour to function. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead relentlessly, too bright, too white, too unforgiving on every blemish and shadow. The clone flinches at the onslaught like a feral creature dragged blinking from a cave into daylight.

“Behave in here,” he mutters under his breath, a low warning. The clone glares daggers but follows, barely containing the simmer.

Colleagues glide past with neutral faces on robotic bodies. In a world where emotions are dangerous, one slip can turn your desk into chaos.

His ID card beeps through the entrance gate. The clone? Beep-beep-beep—access denied.

The security guard glances between him and the clone, his eyebrows twitching for the first time in a decade.

“You split today?” he asks flatly.

“Yeah,” he replies, rubbing his knee. “Minor incident at the bus stand.”

The guard nods, prints a temporary badge: GUEST – EMOTIONAL MANIFESTATION, and hands it over. The clone snatches it, annoyed, as they walk in together.

Inside, the office hums like a graveyard at dusk: endless rows of cubicles partitioned by thin fabric walls, keyboards clacking like swarms of insects, the acrid smell of cheap instant coffee trying and failing to mask the undercurrent of existential dread permeating everything. His boss stands near the pantry vending machine, sipping tea from a chipped mug with the posture of someone who's long abandoned the concept of human warmth.

The clone spots her immediately. Fists clench at his sides, knuckles popping audibly. Oh no. Not her. Anyone but the boss.

He whispers sharply, “Don't even think it,” while grabbing the clone's wrist before he can launch into round two of life-destroying impulses.

The boss notices them approaching, blinking once slowly. “You're late,” she says, voice flat as a dying ECG line. Her eyes drift to the clone, lingering. “And you've brought… this with you.”

“Just a small outburst,” he explains weakly, shifting weight off his bad knee. “Traffic incident. Bicycle. Nothing major.”

She stares at him for a solid three seconds, unblinking. Then sips her tea like a disappointed grandmother assessing a wayward child. “Fine. Just keep it away from the printer. The last clone from Finance ate the damn thing. Tray, toner cartridges, USB port. We still haven't found the stapler anywhere.”

He blinks, processing. “Ate… it? The entire printer?”

She nods, completely serious, stirring her tea methodically. “Chewed right through. Security footage showed it gnawing like a beaver on espresso.”

The clone perks up visibly, curiosity sparking like a new hobby discovered. Eyes flick to the humming printer in the corner.

“No,” he snaps immediately, pointing a warning finger. “We are NOT eating office equipment today. Not on my watch.”

The clone opens his mouth, poised to argue or insult her lineage or maybe spike the coffee machine with salt packets. Impossible to predict.

The boss sighs deeply, already tired of their existence before noon. “If it chews anything at all,” she says dryly, “your salary will be deducted to replace it. Including the building if it gets ambitious.”

He clamps a hand over the clone's mouth and drags him to his cramped cubicle, hoping to avoid HR. As notifications flood his laptop—urgent deadlines and passive-aggressive reminders—the clone sulks on the stool.

“We should burn this place down,” he mutters.

“Reset to safety,” he replies, and for a moment, the clone relaxes. A fleeting sense of peace.

The conference room is freezing, tension palpable. The boss and clients are seated, and beside him is the Anger Clone, ready to explode.

He starts the presentation, but Anger Clone slams the table. “THESE NUMBERS ARE A TOTAL SCAM!”

The room freezes as he struggles to contain the chaos. Anger Clone lunges at a client, making the situation worse. He forces a smile, trying to lighten the mood, but the damage is done.

Suddenly, a new clone appears: Sad Clone, looking defeated. “It’s all my fault,” he whispers, drawing mixed reactions from the room.

The boss calls the meeting to an end. “Please… fix yourself before tomorrow.”

He realises he can’t; he’s only multiplied his problems.

He sinks into the lobby sofa like a man who's finally lost his last life in an endless video game, body heavy, spirit pulverised. Except he's not alone anymore. Never truly is now.

To his left: Anger Clone pacing like a chihuahua with full-blown PTSD, shooting daggers at every passerby who dares to breathe too loudly.

To his right: Sad Clone crying into a crumpled tissue like it personally betrayed him with its absorbency limits.

“Bro, can you NOT leak emotions everywhere like a faulty tap?” Anger snaps, voice rising.

Sad Clone sobs louder in response. “I'm TRYING, okay? I'm really trying.”

He closes his eyes tightly. “Both of you… just… stop producing sound for five minutes.”

HR had already pulled him aside earlier, politely suggesting he take the rest of the day off: “Company policy.” But life laughed at that. Just then, his friends entered, the one bright spot in this chaotic day. His face softened and, before he could stop himself, emotions surged.

In a moment, two new clones emerged. The depressed Clone, dressed in a grey hoodie, lamented, “The universe is just a big cosmic prank. We’re all punchlines.” Grateful Clone sparkled with optimism, exclaiming, “We’re so blessed to have these friends in this madness!” The two started a wild emotional cycle—gratitude swinging into despair.

Soon, his friends split up too. Friend 1 revealed Worry Clone, hyper-vigilant and scanning for threats, while Friend 2 unleashed Chaos Clone, ready to wreak playful havoc. They all stared at each other in shock: “Bro… did we just get emotionally contagioned?”

Later, they gathered in a dim bar, surrounded by their clones. Anger Clone argued with ice cubes, Sad Clone wept into soda, and Grateful Clone expressed thanks to the table legs. Despite the absurdity, laughter broke through the chaos. After sharing their stories, he returned home, not alone but with his messy orchestra of selves: Sad, Angry, Depressed, Grateful. Finally, he felt okay just letting the noise be noise.HR had already pulled him aside earlier, politely suggesting he take the rest of the day off: “Company policy.” But life laughed at that. Just then, his friends entered, the one bright spot in this chaotic day. His face softened and, before he could stop himself, emotions surged.

He reaches his home at last, standing outside the building’s rusted gate while the rain hangs heavy in the air like unfinished sentences trailing off. His clones circle him restlessly: muttering philosophies, pacing agitated paths, arguing in overlapping voices, leaking emotions like bad plumbing with endless drips.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the chaos, clean and clear. Her voice. From Room 312. The universe pauses on its axis.

Even Anger Clone, who spent the whole day threatening old ladies and plotting against office printers, shuts up instantly like someone yanked his plug. Sad Clone stops sniffling mid-hiccup, breath caught. Depressed Clone forgets his existentialism for one whole, miraculous second. Grateful Clone just stares, stunned into awe like he’s seeing sunlight pierce clouds for the first time.

His heart kicks against his ribs, brutal and obvious, a thunderous rhythm. His chest tightens so sharply it feels like a truck didn't just crush him earlier, it parked there permanently.

“Hi!” she says, walking past with that soft, practised neutrality, umbrella tilted just so.

He snaps back to reality just in time, mumbling thickly, “Hello…” Smooth as gravel. Very smooth.

“How was your day?” she asks lightly, voice like rain droplets on leaves, and doesn't even wait for his stumbling answer. She's already moving toward the staircase, umbrella dripping steadily, footsteps soft and fading, her own heartbeat forever hidden.

Two seconds of stunned silence stretch. He stands there like someone pressed pause on his soul mid-frame.

All the clones stare at him, wide-eyed and confused, as the internal noise rises into a murmur. He whispers, “F**k it,” and runs past rusted gates and splashing puddles, carrying the weight of hesitation since he first saw her months ago.

He shouts her name, breathless, and she turns slowly. He skids to a halt, rain dripping from his hair, a thousand selves screaming for silence.

Then he speaks the raw truth: “I like you, and not the quiet kind. It ruins my mornings and makes my heart race. It scares me, and I had to say it.”

His voice cracks, hanging in the damp air. Behind him, the clones lower their heads in unison, understanding the courage it took.

Her expression doesn’t change. She steps back, straightens her shoulders, and in a flat tone says, “Aww, thanks. That’s so sweet of you.” Turning, she walks away without a second glance.

Frozen and soaked, he stands still as his clones step closer. Anger Clone yells, “WHY DID YOU DO THAT TO US?!” Sad Clone laments, “That hurt more than actual death.” The depressed Clone mutters, “We should hibernate for years.” Grateful Clone whispers, “At least… she heard us.”

Then the silence inside him shatters. His chest tightens, and he exhales in defeat.

You can guess what happens next. One… two… three… Split x20. Dozens, maybe, twenty or more spilling out in a torrent.

Every emotion he's ever buried deep, every voice he's swallowed silent, every version of himself he's tried desperately to control, they all erupt into the rain now. A whole army of him: confused clones yelling, angry ones rampaging, heartbroken ones weeping, numb ones staring vacant, terrified ones cowering, hopeful ones whispering possibilities, uselessly brave ones standing tall.

He walks up the stairs through a growing crowd, no lift because fate demands irony. The clones follow like ghosts, dissolving into arguments, crying fits, and existential rants.

Unlocking his door with numb fingers, he waits for them to pile in, leaving the lights off to avoid multiplying his reflection. Instead, he puts on his headphones, cranks the volume to drown everything out, lies flat on the bed, and lets the tears flow—the silent, long-awaited kind.

Around him, the clones rage through the night, wailing, arguing, and spiralling into chaos, knowing that by sunrise, they will vanish without a trace. Scientists call it “the Dawn Reset Phenomenon,” but it simply means: carry your own heart again.

When the alarm blares, he opens his eyes to an empty room. Gone. No evidence left behind. Wiping his face with the bedsheet, he takes a deep breath. A new day dawns, a chance to break spectacularly or be broken quietly. He grabs his coat, and steps out the door.