Evolution, panicked, invents a narrator because meat alone won’t cross this street. She stitches a pronoun to your face, whispers, this is you, stay inside.
A thousand background processes flicker, cancel, reinforce; the loudest accident wins and is mistaken for a self.
You meet another coincidence in a doorway, two weather systems of flesh briefly agreeing on a sky neither of you arranged.
Meanwhile the pattern keeps reassembling, wearing “I” the way Betelgeuse wears a hunter, waiting to see who believes it, even as no one in particular does.