Jane Doe had always felt like a placeholder in her life. Her weekdays were spent in beige offices and grey cubicles, a perfect, repetitive routine that revolved around commuter trains and fluorescent lighting. She was the one who signed forms when the right person couldn’t be located; she was the stock photo for Conscientious Employee, and the typical choice for Average Briton.
John Doe was her reflection in a mirror. He worked in logistics, managing the numbers scribbled on crates and containers; an invisible but essential cog in a complex machine. His flat was the perfect example of a starter home, while his weekends were dedicated to mild, forgettable activities. He carried the weight of the collective unknown, serving as the critical zero on the axis of humanity.
For years, their lives ran parallel, with their paths often crossing without contact. They haunted the same crowded coffeehouse, both always ordering the standard dark roast: no milk, no sugar. They waited on the same train platform, with John taking the exact spot where Jane had stood just ten minutes earlier. They existed in proximity, bound by the strange gravity of their shared, yet non-existent, identity.
One Friday evening, a massive power failure threw the city into chaos. The Underground came to a complete stop between stations, trapping passengers inside. After an hour of feeling claustrophobic, they were finally guided out onto the emergency tracks and back to the street, forming a single-file line of collective frustration. As Jane emerged into the brisk, cold dusk, she bumped into someone carrying an identical black umbrella. The umbrellas clashed forcefully, sending a splash of rainwater over both of them.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Jane began, retrieving her dropped handbag.
‘No, it’s my fault,’ the man replied. He had kind, tired eyes and wore a sensible, if generic, navy raincoat. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
Then, she noticed the work lanyard hanging over the man’s raincoat, the badge reading: JOHN DOE. Jane couldn’t help but laugh, a small, unexpected sound that felt foreign in the urban silence. She pointed a gloved finger to her own badge, which read: JANE DOE. John gazed at her with slightly furrowed brows, then back at his own name.
[End of Part 1. More to come; this isn’t the end.]
