It was quite strange. She looked familiar. Except her hair was blonde. I recognized the eyes, the chin dimple, the high cheekbones, and the crooked teeth. Even her skin had the same patchy look, with some parts darker than others. The fake moustache was the most eerie part. Ok, it wasn't really a moustache, it was the darkening of the skin between the upper lip and the nose, from years of having acne. Which made that area of skin look like it had been shaved, leaving minute stubble of hair.

She had an air of sophistication and ease about her though that I did not recognize.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the feeling.

I stared at her some more, and finally words came out of my mouth without my prompting.

"Are, are, are you meeeee?”

"Yes, annnnddddd, no." She replied.

"Ok, that did not help at all." I said without any desire to hide my irritation. I was exhausted and just wanted answers without any weird riddles and shit.

"Well, technically, I am you. But I am also not you. Because, well, I've made different choices. Which is why I said no." She explained, unperturbed by my attitude.

I was curious about what choices she made that were different from mine. But my intention for travelling to the end of the rainbow was not for some existential revelation. I wanted to be rich....filthy rich.

I looked around her, wondering if there was a pot of gold somewhere close by that I missed, distracted by this more stylish version of me.

There was nothing.

Well, there wasn't just nothing. We were standing in a field of the most brilliant marigolds I'd ever seen. The sun shone on them giving a wide array of gold, oranges and yellow. It brought to mind the song Fields of Gold by Sting. I smiled. I loved that song. A few bars played in my head, and I felt a little less irritated.

Okay, I'll indulge the other "version" of myself, I thought.

"What choices have you made differently?" I asked, making eye contact again. All this time she had just stood by, patiently, observing me observe my surroundings.

"I emigrated to Paris and lived there for five years. I can speak French, somewhat fluently."

I felt a pang of intense jealousy, which almost made me cry.

I remember the dream of wanting to live in Paris, or somewhere foreign for a few years. I did not want to backpack like other newly graduated high schoolers. I wanted to immerse myself in another culture, learn their language, eat the local food (the delicacies that tourists weren't privy to), and possibly re-invent myself.

Back then, I had a high school boyfriend. My first love, Timothy. When I told him about my plans, he got upset, which was unusual for him. I still remember what he said that day,

"If you go, that means we are over. Long distance relationships never work out. And we don't have money to travel back and forth to visit each other."

It was final, he wasn't open to even trying.

I felt torn in that moment. I loved Timothy, truly, madly, deeply, just like the song by Savage Garden. That was our song. Every lyric spoke to our present and possible future together.

I stayed for Timothy. Two years later, we broke up. We grew apart in college, although we went to the same school. It was devastating. It took me years to get over it. But by then, I was already focused on earning my bachelors degree in biology, a step towards medical school, Paris or anywhere foreign was no longer on my mind.

I looked at the blonde haired version of myself. She looked back at me.

"I guess......no pot of gold then?" I asked.

She laughed, clutching her stomach, head tilted back. It was my laugh, our laugh. And it made me laugh. We laughed together for a while. I didn't get a pot of gold, but it felt good to laugh with myself.