The Stranger Who Knew My Name Before I Told Him

“A black coffee, no sugar. Right, Areeb?”

The man behind the counter smiled like we were old friends. His voice was calm, confident. But I’d never seen him before in my life.

I froze, fingers still halfway to my wallet.
“How do you know my name?” I asked.

He just winked and handed me the coffee.


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It was a regular Tuesday. I was in Lahore for a conference and had wandered into a quiet café near Anarkali Bazaar. Nothing fancy—wooden tables, some dusty bookshelves, and the scent of roasted beans lingering in the air.

I hadn’t introduced myself. I hadn’t used a card. There was no name tag, no registration.
Still, he knew. And not just my name—he knew the way I liked my coffee.

That was the first time I met him.
But it wouldn’t be the last.


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The Second Encounter

Two days later, I was at the Lahore Fort, taking photos for my blog. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the ancient red bricks. I felt someone watching me.

And there he was again.

Same man. Same calm smile.
“Try shooting from the third archway on the left,” he said casually. “That’s where your favorite shot will come from.”

I was too stunned to reply.
I moved to the third archway—click.

He was right. The photo turned out incredible. One of my best.
But when I turned to ask him how he knew…
He was gone.

Just like that.


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I Started Looking for Him

It became an obsession.

Who was this man? A psychic? A prankster? A lost relative?

He appeared three more times over the next month—each time in a different city.

Once in Islamabad, outside a bookshop.
Once in Karachi, near Clifton beach.
Once in Peshawar, just across the Qissa Khwani Bazaar.

Each time, he knew things no one else could.

My favorite writer.
My childhood nickname.
The song I played on loop when my father died.

Private memories. Deep memories. Things I hadn’t told anyone in years.


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The Letter in My Journal

After the fourth encounter, I found a folded note tucked into the pages of my travel journal.

I didn’t write it.

It was written in my handwriting—but with a message I had never penned.

> “You asked who I am.
I am someone you once imagined.
A version of you from a life you don’t remember.”



My hands trembled. I read it again.
It made no sense. Or maybe—it made too much sense.


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The Final Meeting

I was back home in Rawalpindi when I saw him again.

He was sitting on a bench near Liaquat Bagh, feeding birds. Calm as ever.
This time, I approached him first.

“Who are you?” I demanded.
He looked up, eyes kind but tired.

“You already know,” he said softly.
I shook my head.

“No, I don’t. Are you following me? Reading my mind? Are you… real?”

He smiled, almost sadly. “I’m the version of you that never stopped believing in magic. The you that wrote stories as a kid, who talked to stars, who believed that time wasn’t linear.”

“What do you mean?” I whispered.

“I’m you. In another timeline. In a dream you forgot. In a choice you didn’t make.”

He stood up, handed me a feather, and walked away.

I never saw him again.


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But Something Changed

That night, I found an old notebook from 2007—when I was 12.

On the last page was a story I vaguely remembered writing. It was about an older version of me, traveling through cities, helping a younger me discover something important.

The main character’s name?

Areeb.


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I Don’t Know What to Believe

Maybe it was a coincidence.
Maybe it was mental stress, a lucid dream, or something science could explain.

Or maybe—not everything has to be explained.

Maybe we cross paths with versions of ourselves when we need them most.


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Since that week, I’ve gone back to writing.
To photography.
To believing.

Because once in a while, the universe sends a message.
And sometimes, the messenger looks a lot like you.


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If you’ve ever felt like someone knew you before they met you—maybe they did.

Maybe time isn’t a straight line.
Maybe stories are more real than we think.

Or maybe—just maybe—we’re all meeting pieces of ourselves along the way.


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