Rainy night, darkest clouds, and a wind that could freeze the spine. Yet, the warmth of my body rises, upon the last bend before my doorstep. The key fits easily, unshackles the inviting creaky sound of its armoured guardian. I stop a few seconds to look at me in the mirror on the wall, until the ticking clock reminds me of the time. I need to hurry up. The party is near. I alight the living room, then dress the round table with newspapers and disposable paper plates. In the middle, I arrange plastic flowers, full of dust, on which I spray synthetic perfume to deceive myself. I never owned much things, either synthetic or livings. It always dies out. So much that, I decided to throw everything into the dust bin. Never develop any attachments. Yet, the dust always comes back, from the vents or riding my hairs. The dust always remains here. Nevertheless, in the hope of the forthcoming, I leisurely lay out the snacks. I wonder one-liner for the guests, arming paraphernalia of ice-breaking quotes to breed discourses. But then... someone rings at the door.

One last look in the mirror, final check before welcoming the stranger. Who is everything but strange to me, even in the clothing department. A twin, more or less likely. From afar, we would be, for sure, confused together. But, as I grasp the details wrote on her face, with the grain of her make up, the illusion crumbles. She is older, one year older, maybe? To avoid making her bothered, I invite her to come in quickly. Did I mentioned a dressing code on the notice? Thoughts stay at large, remains blurry on the horizon. I can't remember anything but the theme. A random party! Where everyone contributes as they wish. It can becomes a soothing book reading session, a dance floor inferno, and finishes at the police station for trespassing. Nobody can predict its end, and that's what make it viral nowadays. The newcomer sits on the floor and drops several brushes. Maybe a painter? Someone who will do our portraits. The door rings.

Another twin, but younger, one year younger, maybe? The situation makes me chuckles. She is wearing a dress I borrowed during last season. My numerous selfies, pinned all around my mirror, also visible on my social account, may have given them an idea. Thinking that people, that I don't know nor never met, are scheming together to prank me, fills me with joy. I finally understood the success of these random party. I lead the new twin to join her mate in the living room, and they exchange a friendly nod in silence. Guess I don't need to make the presentation.

And from now. Every minutes. The door rang. Every minutes. Another twin. The feeling of joy began to turn into fear. Always alone at the doorstep, never the same age, but dressed with my same clothes at the time, with my same hairdo at the time, with my same bright smile at the time. Frozen in time, as if they were born from my pinned selfies. However, seeing them in the living flesh made my heart rate explode. And the others, who are older than me, with clothes I never saw, but deep down I desired, deep down I projected myself wearing them, still I refused to bear the same wrinkles. One by one, they all went along and joined the others in the living room.

But now, I fear for what they are cooking. I ear sounds of stepping, clicking, clapping, ripping, painting, zipping, and more... except human voices. The anxiety builds up with the expectation of another ringing. I preemptly open the door, and see nobody. Nobody coming from the left side of the street. Nobody coming for the right. Nothing but rain pouring down on the street. I slowly close the door while keeping an eye on the street, but nothing is coming. Nothing until the door close, and then the ring sounds. Another twin. A child, this time. Alone. Seeing her braids flood my mind of the memories of my late parents, along with the car crash. Even the freckles and wounds were on point on her face. I try to talk to her, but she slips away into the living room. The perceived kind attention was now felt as a perfidious disgusting joke. Dragging me at the foot, the anxiety makes me fall head first against the mirror. The shattered glass is riddled with threads of blood, my blood. The party is done.

Using my last once of energy, I drag myself for help into the living room, and there, they were. Ordered from the younger to the older, like the Daltons. Bearing the story of my old wounds and my most recent one, a scar on the forehead. My fears were real, they were all me. A large white banner is hanged on the wall. "Intervention" is painted on with a familiar lack of artistic sense.

The younger ones say together: "You are not what we dreamed to be,"

The older ones say together: ",you are not what we wanted to belong."

Then all together: "This is an intervention. Stop trying to mend the past and cause us more wounds. Stop messing with our memories. Stop trying to greedy the future and waste all our money. Stop creating doppelgängers of us all around the world. Stay in your timeline. Stop time-travelling."

And they all disappear in a black fog, kicking up the dust in the living room, not even letting the time to answer. For a moment, I hoped that the party could continue. I would have a lot to ask them, face to face, but deep down I already knew all the answers.

To relieve my anxiety, I grab a plate of biscuits, but the door rings again. An unexpected latecomer! Maybe the oldest one. I never succeeded to travel past certain dates. I guessed that I couldn't go beyond my death. So I always avoided to meet my older version of me, to never see the final countdown written on my face. I open the door and see a twitching man, eaten away by stress from the nail to the scalp, holding a toned down briefcase.

"Hi. My name is Jimmy. I am from the TTAA. Time Traveller Addict Anonymous. I understand the pain of being addicted to time travel. From the de-connection to the present with the false hope of fixing everything. Your others selves asked me to stop you."

"But I didn't do anything, yet."

"Yet, you didn't. But they already know."