My copy

 It all started in December 2008. My best friend called me and said he had a surprise for me. When I arrived at his place, I saw a girl in his room and froze, falling into a stupor. The girl looked just like me—not a ghost, not a ghost, but a living person. Her name was the same as mine, and she was also 23 at the time. Same eyes, same hair, nose, lips, build... It felt like I was looking in a mirror. After that, my friend explained that he was riding the subway, saw her, thought it was me, caught up with her and started talking. When he found out that this girl had nothing to do with me, he became interested and dragged her to his house.

It's been a few months. Nastya (that girl) worked hard to become my friend and talked only with me. It bothered me a lot. I asked my parents if I had a twin sister, and then I introduced them to Nastya. My parents were shocked that we looked so much alike. They asked Nastya to introduce them to her parents. The meeting took place, and it turned out that there was nothing in common between us — we were just terribly similar, and that was it.

Six months later, everyone got used to it. Nastya talked freely with me and my friends, but when I saw her, I was still scared. In January 2010, I was hit by a car. Nothing serious—a concussion and a broken arm. On the same day, my friends reported that Nastya had also been hit by a car, and she had the same injuries as me. In March of the same year, I was hospitalized with poisoning — and what do you think happened next? That's right, Nastya was also admitted to the hospital on the same day with the same diagnosis. In general, there were many such coincidences. All this began to bother me, and I avoided communicating with Nastya.

In October of this year, she died after being hit by an electric train. Naturally, the thought immediately popped into my head — wouldn't this happen to me? As soon as we found out about her death, we immediately ran to her parents to offer help. No one opened the door for us. Five days have passed. I still couldn't contact Nastya's parents — they went to her apartment every day, but no one opened the door. Then the old lady from the next apartment reported that no one had lived here for three years: the owner of the apartment had died, and the children were abroad. We thought Grandma just had sclerosis.

40 days after her death, they decided to get her photo at the wake. It turned out that in all the photos her face seemed to be smeared with white paint. We ran to the office, where the photos were being developed, and they began to poke us in the face with pieces of paper: "We checked all the photos ourselves, your murals are there, we paid for the money ourselves, what are the claims against them?". We never found her parents. We went to the housing office, to the passport office, to no avail: the apartment belongs to the deceased grandfather, and no one else was registered or lived in it.

I'm still very scared if the same fate awaits me as hers. Fear turns into panic, and I walk around trains and railroad tracks a kilometer away...