Underground Mirrors IV

There’s this guy I’d see every Monday morning, between the metro and my apartment.
The first time I noticed him, I decided we were twins. Monday mornings, we each wore a blazer and a shirt. He looked classy, his first button undone. I look raggedy, my first button undone. A blazer is a blazer, they were both likely the same color, only mine was a polyester blend, and you could see that the night had seeped into it. His was as fresh as the morning; I could almost smell him pass by.
Our hair was the same color, it caught the wind in the same way; it was the same length, curled in the same places. I was sure we looked odd, that moment we passed each other, like a mockery of each other, me the shorter end. I’d see him from a bit of a distance, and imagine that this might be the day he’d smile at how strange we were. We were each other’s dream-selves, each other’s shadows. We transitioned from wakefulness to sleep at the same moment, trading places, I’d be climbing back above ground, he’d be rushing bellow ground.
One morning, a few months ago, he saw my destination, my little fence, and the door to my apartment building: I saw him look, and he saw me notice. He jolted back to pretend he wasn't looking; he’d found the end of our shared path.
That’s the last time I saw him. I’ve often looked for him. I’ve wondered if his sudden disappearance had anything to do with his seeing my apartment, my looking back towards him.