"Someone is definitely fucking with you."

My girlfriend Myra shakes her curl-covered head and goes back to making breakfast. The familiar sounds of butter sizzling in the pan as she fries up her eggs, the coffee pot chiming out its completed brewing cycle, our dogs nails clacking against the hardwood floor as they wait for a rogue morsel to escape the pan. These sounds surround me but I hear none of them. Instead I hear my own heartbeat ringing deafeningly in my ears.

I don't know what to make of what I've just read. The letter was addressed to me...in what was most certainly my own loopy antiquated cursive handwriting. And Not only was it addressed to me, but it was FROM me.

But not me. Another me, in a different universe. The Other Me seemed to be living a life quite similiar to mine - same neighborhood, same two dogs, married to a wonderful woman, albeit not Myra.

"At least you're queer in all universes we've been made aware of," Myra had chuckled as we read through the letter together.

However, despite the similiarities described by Other Me, there was a huge concerning difference. In Other Me's world, people keep randomly disappearing. Vanishing into thin air. They are scared they might be next.

And somehow, they think it's my version of reality that's causing the problem.

Having gone to a modest liberal art school to procure a [pretty much useless] English degree, I had no idea where to even begin to fathom the logistics of this.

But I could tell from Other Me's letter that they were desperate. And somehow inside of me, I knew they were sincere. And although this is absolutely utterly insane, I want to try to help.