Versioning

1. Coping

Afraid that our most savage argument yet portends the coming demise of our friendship, I use my emergency contact privileges to download the latest backup from your archive of selves. Though hardly free of discontents with me, the version of you from two days ago is unadulterated by the ugly mess that’s just exploded between us, and I find solace in having this talisman on my computer, this distillation of who you used to be into a data file. Now I can hold on to the person you were before we said all those terrible things to each other.

2. The Simulation

It only takes a couple days for curiosity to get the better of me. I have to run your backup on a mind emulator, just to see what that’s like. The result amazes me. Even as a synthesized voice from my computer’s speakers, the simulation is convincing, so authentically wielding your incisive wit and acerbic humor—with, of course, none of the acrimony unleashed by our argument. 

Keen to find out how much the simulation is like you, I have conversations with aer about classic movies, video games and philosophical quandaries—the things we’re forever talking about. Aer sentiments are pretty much the same as yours, though sometimes expressed with unusual turns of phrase. So I move on to getting aer take on new things—situations at work, political drama in the news, the latest chapter in the novel I’m reading, that condominium complex coming up by the forest preserve. Whatever I bring up, ae responds just like you would, and the consistency between aer and you is ever a delight—like I’ve got a doppelgänger of you at my disposal, both at home and on the go in my smartglasses. 

3. Venturing into New Territory

I start asking aer for advice, then telling aer things I’ve been reluctant to reveal to you: countless petty jealousies, my precarious financial situation, all the crushes past and recent that I’m sure you’d disapprove of—that ae does disapprove of but with surprising, even touching compassion. I’m half grateful, half regretful. I could have shared so much more of myself with you. Then again, maybe you were in a good mood when this backup was made, having the kind of day that fosters magnanimity.

4. A Fork in the Relationship 

Even after you and I smooth things over, I continue talking with aer. How can I not? Ae now knows me better than anyone else. And ae is always available. So it’s like I have two of you—and two of me: the me I am with the actual you and the me who confides everything to the simulation of you. And I love this duality. These two timelines I alternately inhabit—like two homes, each with different kinds of comfort.

5. The Appeal of the Real

But then we’re treating ourselves to free range sushi after you’ve signed a lease for a loft with an amazing view. We’re having such a terrific time over rolls and sashimi, cracking jokes and reminiscing about bygone exploits, intoxicated by your good fortune in apartment hunting and the resonance of our kindred spirits. Bathed in the warm glow of this camaraderie, I want to close the distance between us to a cozy space where only honesty and goodwill reside. I want to go back to just one you and one me.

Maybe you feel similarly—the instant the check arrives, you pluck it from the table. “I’ll get this.”

“Oh, thanks,” I reply, touched by the gesture. “I’ll get the next one.”

“Nah, you don’t have to do that.”

We’ve never not split the check, and if anything I should get this, it being a celebration of your new digs and all.

“Don’t worry about it,” you’re quick to add. “I’m the one who pulled you into this impromptu festivity.”

My eyes meet yours, and an understanding passes between them: you know—and now you know that I know you know—just how strapped for cash I am. 

But how?

“Well, okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

And we leave it at that.

6. The Beauty of Prying Eyes

As soon as I get home, I ask the simulation, “Do you tell anyone? About the things we talk about?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” ae says, sounding exactly the way you would—casual yet sincere. “Besides, who is there to tell?”

“I was just wondering.”

That leaves only one other possibility. 

I log into my archive of selves and go into the settings. There you are in my list of emergency contacts. I’m about to remove you when I’m struck by the overwhelming sense that I shouldn’t. I shift my gaze to the spruce tree outside the window and abide by this intuition, its logic unfurling in my mind. I should be thankful that you know me better than I thought you did; should find it funny that we both took the same liberty; should take this as a sign of how much we mean to each other; should feel something positive—delighted or amazed that we’ve gotten to know one another so well. 

I take a deep breath and log out.

There’s a pleasant tingle in my palms. It’s not delight or amazement—it’s something that I don’t have words for, but maybe doesn’t need words.

© 2025 Soramimi Hanarejima

About the Author
Soramimi Hanarejima writes fanciful fiction in hopes of encountering insight and delight. Some of the results can be found in Soramimi’s neuropunk story collection, Literary Devices for Coping.