Anthony was dead tired.

Not physically—mentally.

The kind of tired that comes from writing for six hours straight, posting a chapter, and immediately hopping into a Discord voice chat with his fellow Wattpad authors. Some were well-known, others were niche writers like him, but all of them were absolute degenerates. They had spent half the night discussing anime clichés, fanfiction tropes, and who could write the most over-the-top fight scene.

And now? He was done.

"Alright, I'm out, y'all. Gotta hit Shoppers tomorrow for some Chef Boyardee," he announced.

"Spaghetti and meatballs again, bruh?"

"Mind yuh business," Anthony grumbled, exiting the call.

He flopped onto his bed without even pulling the covers over himself. Within minutes, he was out cold.

When he woke up, something felt off.

Not in a "missing limb" or "my rent is overdue" kind of way.

More like...there was a presence.

Like he had to share the bed with someone.

And that barely made any fucking sense.

Groggily, he sat up, rubbing his face, not thinking too much about it. Sleep still had him in a chokehold. Stumbling toward the bathroom, he pissed half-asleep while reaching for his toothbrush.

And then—

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

A scream tore through the air—his own.

Because standing right next to him in the mirror was himself—except not himself.

A woman.

She had his face, but softer.

His dark skin, but smoother.

His dreadlocks, but styled differently, with some tied in a bun.

His build, but curvier, more... developed.

Her shirt stretched tight against a chest that absolutely did not belong on his body.

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" he bellowed.

"I'M YOU, WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" she screamed back.

"NAH, FUCK THAT, YOU'RE A WHOLE WOMAN!"

"AND YOU'RE A WHOLE MAN!"

Silence.

Then, like a trigger was pulled, one of them tackled the other—a blur of movement, fists flying, adrenaline spiking. They crashed out of the bathroom, rolling across the floor in a tangle of limbs. Anthony, acting on pure fight-or-flight, went for his kukri knife near his nightstand.

But Antoinette was faster—she decked him in the jaw before he could reach it.

"BITCH—"

"ASSHOLE—"

They both backed up, breathing heavily, eyeing each other like two street cats about to throw down.

Then, finally—

"...The fuck is going on?"

They stared, processing.

No illusions. No weird anime logic. No dreams.

She was real.

He was real.

They both existed—somehow.

After five minutes of side-eyeing each other like paranoid crackheads, they decided to talk. Properly.

"Alright, let's ask some questions."

They sat across from each other in the living room, arms crossed.

"You go first," Antoinette said, her deep brown eyes narrowing.

Anthony exhaled. "Fine. What's your full name?"

"Antoinette Tristan Johnson. Online, I go by Ant357627."

Anthony's brain blue-screened.

She had his username.

What the fuck.

"I'm Anthony Tristan Johnson," he said slowly, staring at her like she was a government psy-op.

Author's Note: Not my actual full name, don't even try it.

"Parallel universe?" she asked, voice completely serious.

"Parallel universe," he agreed.

Both of them nodded once, accepting that as the only possible answer.

"Alright, my turn," Antoinette leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "What's your biggest fetish?"

Anthony choked on his spit.

"BITCH, WHAT?!"

"You heard me, nigga." She smirked, resting her chin in her palm. "C'mon, what's your type? Or wait—what's your opposite gender version of your type?"

Anthony's eye twitched. "You asking me if I like muscular women?!"

"Maybe." She shrugged. "I like me some thicc-ass dudes. The ones that could bench press my ass if needed. So, what about you?"

Anthony dragged his hand down his face. "I hate that I understand why you're asking."

"You better answer, nigga, I answered mine."

"...Fine. I like thick women with strong thighs." He gave her a pointed look. "Which, judging by how you built, kinda explains a lot."

Antoinette grinned, flexing her leg.

"Your turn."

Anthony groaned. "Biggest turn-off?"

Antoinette didn't even hesitate. "Weak niggas."

Anthony smirked. "Figures. Mine's entitled bitches."

They dapped each other up in mutual agreement.

After about ten minutes of trading questions, they came to a disturbing realization:

Their universes were exact opposites. 

Antoinette's world: Women dominated socially and politically. Gender roles were flipped—men were more emotional, less dominant, and had to prove themselves in relationships. 

Anthony's world: The opposite, obviously.

Both were Wattpad authors, Discord users, and unemployed writers with strong opinions on bullshit.

Then came The Stare.

At some point in the conversation, Anthony's eyes drifted.

More specifically—to Antoinette's chest.

"...Damn."

At the same exact time, Antoinette's gaze dropped to his lap.

"...Damn."

They both looked up at each other.

Then back down.

Then back up.

Then down again.

A solid two minutes of straight-up staring, processing, analyzing, and comparing notes.

Finally, Anthony cleared his throat.

"...We are NOT doing this."

Antoinette smirked. "Pussy."

"Bitch, don't—"

She burst out laughing, doubling over, shaking her head.

Anthony couldn't help it—he started laughing too.

Because this was some anime-level bullshit, and both of them knew it.

To Be Continued...

Final Thoughts:

Anthony went to bed expecting a normal day of writing, chatting, and buying Chef Boyardee. Instead, he woke up to a parallel universe version of himself, got into a bathroom brawl, and spent the morning having the most chaotic Q&A session of his life.

And now?

Now, he had to figure out what to do with himself.

Literally.