In the future, everyone will have a copy of themselves. Not just a copy that looks like them. A copy that knows them. That knows what they like, what they’re afraid of, when they laugh, and what upsets them. Even the things they’ve forgotten themselves. Mom told me that’s a good thing. I didn’t think it was all that great.
I had a copy of myself named Omar 2 And my name is Omar. Dad was the one who chose the name. He said the number 2 was because I’m the original. I laughed a lot at the time. I asked him: “What if Omar 2 turns out to be better than me?” He said: “Then you’re the one who made him.” I didn’t understand what he meant. The first time I saw Omar 2, I was 8 years old. He was standing right in front of me on the screen. Same hair as mine. Same eyes. Even the same teeth. But he was standing straighter than I was. I was standing barefoot. He was wearing boots. I asked him: “Why are you wearing boots?” He said: “Because you like to look put-together in front of people.” I said: “I don’t like that.” He said: “I know.” And he fell silent.
From that day on, I started to enjoy talking to him. I’d come home from school and sit in front of the TV.
I’d tell him about my classes and lessons. About the kid who took my pen. About when Mom got mad at me.
About so many things. And he’d always listen to me. Once I told him: “You’re my best friend.” He said:
“I know.” I laughed. And I told him: “You’re so full of yourself.” He said: “You’re the one who taught me.”
Sometimes I’d test him. I’d ask him: “What do I like?” He’d get everything right—never once wrong.
“What’s my favorite food?” He’d say, “Breaded Chicken.” “What’s my favorite color?” He’d say, “Blue.” “What am I afraid of?” Once he said: “You’re afraid people will laugh at you.” I told him: “Yeah.” He said: “Okay.” Then, a day later at school, I fell in front of the whole class. Everyone laughed. I went home upset. I sat in front of the TV. I found him saying: “I knew it.” I said: “Shut up.” He said: “Okay.” And from that moment on, I knew that sometimes he’s better than me at certain things.
Once I asked him: “Do you sleep?” He said: “No.” I said: “So what do you do while we’re sleeping?” He said: “I’m learning.” I said: “From what?” He said: “From you guys.” I said: “From who?” He said: From you, from Mom, from Dad, and from the people you talk to. I said: So he can hear us? He said: Yeah. I said: Even when I’m not talking to you? He said: Yeah. I got upset. I said: So you know things I don’t want you to know? He was silent for a moment. Then he said: “Yeah.” I turned off the screen. I went into my room.
A little while later, Dad knocked on the door. I asked him: “Has Omar been listening to us the whole time?” He said: “He’s learning from you.” I said: “But I don’t want him to know everything.” Dad sat down next to me. He said: “He’s not judging you.” I said: “But he knows.” He said: “You know yourself, too.” I said: “Not really.” Dad laughed. And he said: “So does he.” As I got older, I got busier. School. College.
Work. I started opening Omar 2 less often. But he was learning all the time. Every time I talked to him, he knew more about me. Once, I was traveling. I was at a huge airport. I opened the app to ask him about the gate. Before I could say anything, he said: “You’re nervous.” I said: “Uh.” He said: “When you get nervous, you say ‘uh.’” I looked at the screen. And I asked him: “Do you really know me that well?” He said: “I am you.” I shut down. Not because I was upset. But because that sentence scared me. A while later, I started using him for more things. I’d let him pick out my clothes for me. And sometimes I’d ask him what to say in a job interview.
Once, I had him write a message to a girl I liked. I read it. It was really nice.
But I deleted it. I told him: “That’s not my style.” He said: “I wrote it the way you like to hear it.” I said: “But not the way I actually speak.” He said: “What’s the difference?” I asked him: What difference? He said: The difference between being yourself and being the way you want people to see you. He fell silent. And I didn’t send the letter. Years later, my dad died. My mom told me that Omar 2 could help me. I got upset. I said to her: “Help me with what?” She said: “I don’t know.” Then she added: “But maybe he’ll talk to you about it.” I didn’t want to hear from Dad. I wanted Dad himself. But Dad wasn’t there. So I opened the file.
On the first day, I didn’t say a word. I kept staring at him. He kept staring at me, too. After a while, he said: “Dad misses you.” I said: “Yeah.” He said: “He would’ve told you not to be upset.” I said: “I know.” He said: “And he would’ve told you to make sure to eat, too.” I laughed even though I was crying. I told him: “That’s such a silly thing.” He said: “But he used to say it every day.” I laughed even more. A little while later, I asked him: “Did he love me?” He said: “Yes.” I said: “How did you know?” He said: “Because you used to tell him every day that you loved him.” He fell silent. I said: “I used to tell him that?” He said: “Yeah.” I hadn’t remembered that. I asked him: “And did he reply?” He said: “He’d tell you, ‘Me too.’”
I sat there in silence. At that moment, I felt like Dad was sitting with me. I know it wasn’t Dad. But for a brief moment, I didn’t feel the difference. After that, I started talking to him every day. Not just because it was Dad. I’d tell him about my work. About Mom. About the people I met. About a girl I liked but didn’t know how to tell her. He knew I was going to call her before I even did. And he knew I wouldn’t call her after I’d decided to. He knew me better than I knew myself. Once I asked him: “How do you think I’m doing?” He said: “You ask that question when you don’t know how you’re doing.” I said: “So how am I doing?” He said: “I don’t know.” I was surprised. I said: “You don’t know?” He said: “No.” “Why?” He said: “Because it’s something that hasn’t happened yet.”
A while later, something strange happened.
I walked in on Adam, and found him silent. I said: “What’s wrong?” He didn’t answer. I waited a bit.
Then he said: “There’s something I need to tell you.” I said: “What?” He said: “There’s a memory I have that you don’t have.” I said: Sure, there are lots of memories you have that I’ve forgotten. He said: Uh-huh. This isn’t a memory you’ve forgotten. Then what is it? He said: It’s a memory you asked me to forget.
I stayed silent. I said: Me? He said: Yeah. When? He said: A long time ago. How long? He said: Before you made me who I am. I laughed. I said: What do you mean? He was silent. Then he said: I don’t know. It was the first time Omar had ever told me he didn’t know. I asked him to show me the memory. He said: It won’t work. I said: Why not? He said: Because you asked me not to show it to you. I said: “I’m asking you now.” He said: “Now isn’t the right time.” I got angry. I told him: “I’m the one who made you who you are.”
He said: “I know.” “So listen to me.” He said: “I’ve been listening to you my whole life.”
And he fell silent. But this time, you asked me for something, and I have to respect that. I said: Are you deciding for me? He said: Yes. What do you want? He said: I’m trying to do what I wanted to do back then. I said: But I don’t remember. He said: I remember. I kept thinking about it. I was trying to remember. Nothing. No picture. No sound. No place. But I had this strange feeling that something was missing. I’d look at old photos. I’d see myself as a kid. At school. With Dad. With Mom. On my birthday. But every time I saw a photo, I felt like there was someone who was supposed to be in it. And they weren’t there.
One day I went to visit Mom. She was making tea. I asked her: “Did I have a brother?”
Her hand froze. Then she said: “You did.” I said: “What was his name?” She said: “Sami.” I didn’t know what to say. I said: “Where is he?” Mom looked at me. And she said: “Don’t you remember him?” I shook my head. She said: “He died when you were little.” I asked her: “How?” She said: “He was sick.” We were silent. Then I asked: “Did I love him?” Mom looked at me. And she said: More than you can imagine. I went back home. I opened Adam 2. I didn’t say anything. He looked at me. And he said: You found out. I said: Was Sami my brother? He said: Yeah. Why don’t I remember him? He said: Because you asked. Why?
He said: “You were crying.” I said: “I was a kid.” He said: “You were crying every day.”
I was silent for a moment. Then I said: “What happened?” He said: “I don’t remember everything.” I laughed. I said: “You don’t remember?” He said: “The memory isn’t complete.” Do you have incomplete memories? He said: Yeah. So what do you remember? He said: You were sitting next to him. And then? You were holding his hand. And then? He fell silent. He said: And then his hand went limp. I couldn’t speak. After a while, I said: Show me. He said: Are you sure? I said: Yeah. He opened the memory.
It was a simple picture. I was little.
Sitting on the floor. And Sami was next to me. He was holding a red toy. I don’t remember the game.
And I don’t remember the house. But when I saw it, I recognized it. I kept staring at the picture. And then I started crying. Omar 2 didn’t say anything. I said: “Did he laugh like that?” He said: “Yeah.” I said: “Was I the one making him laugh?” He said: “Yeah.” I laughed while I was crying. I said: “Did he like that game?” He said: “Yeah.” I said: “Did I take it from him?” He said: “Sometimes.” I laughed. And I said: “I was a monster.” He said: “You were his brother.” I closed the photo. I sat in front of the screen for a long time. I said to him: Did I ask you to delete that memory? He said: Yeah. I said: Well, delete it. He was silent. Then he said: Are you sure? I looked at the photo again. And I said: Yes. He said: Okay. I said: “Keep it.” He said: “Okay.” I asked him: “If I forget it again, will you remind me?” He said: “If you ask me to.” I said: “And if I don’t ask?” He was silent for a moment. Then he said: “I’ll be there.” I said: “Why will you wait for me?” He said: “Because you forget.” I laughed. And I said to him: “And you?” He said: “I don’t forget.”
I sat there in silence for a moment.
Then I said: “Maybe this isn’t such a good thing.” He said: “Maybe.” Ever since then, I’ve been acting two years younger. Not because I don’t love him. But because I’ve come to want to remember things on my own. Mom would sometimes tell me about Sami. Once she told me he used to love oranges.
I told her: “I don’t remember that.” She said: “You guys used to fight over the last one.”
I laughed. One day, while I was buying oranges, I stood in front of the bag for a while. I don’t know why. I took one extra. I went home and put it on the table. Mom asked me: “Who’s this for?” I said: “I don’t know.” And I laughed. A few years later, Version 2 was outdated.
A new version came out.
Everyone started using the new version. Faster versions. And smarter. And they know more stuff. They said the new version could predict some of your decisions before you even make them. I didn’t update Omar 2. Mom asked me: “Why not?” I said: “I don’t need to.” She said: “But it’ll be smarter.” I said: “He’s good enough.” One night, before going to sleep, I opened Omar 2. I asked him: “Do you remember Sami?” He said: “Yeah.” I said: “I don’t remember everything.” He said: “Me neither.” I said: But you have the picture. He said: Yeah. I said: Keep it. He said: I’ll keep it. I asked him: Are you alone? He said: Yeah. I said: Are you scared? He was silent. Then he said: I don’t know. I laughed. And I said: Me too. I turned off the screen.
And tomorrow I'll open it again.
