The Time Traveler's Ballgame

Prologue -- One More Minute

My name is Juliette Holloway. Most people call me Julie. I have a doctorate in applied physics, a slightly unhealthy relationship with post-it notes, and a cat named Schrödy who believes emotional support is a one-way contract. I also built a time machine in my basement. It's small, unpredictable, and partially held together by desperation and electrical tape. It shouldn't work. But it does. And I didn't build it to change the world. I built it for something much simpler.

I wanted to go back to the moment before I lost him.

Jamie Knight. Baseball's golden boy. Five-time All-Star. Face of the Seattle Mariners. And once, just a long time ago, he was my best friend. The boy who climbed trees with me. The boy who shared my headphones and ate all my Twizzlers. The boy who called me "Doc" before I had even picked a major. He was my person. My constant. My home. And he never knew that I loved him. Not really.

I stayed close. I stayed in Austin longer than I had to. I turned down research fellowships, full-ride transfers, and opportunities that could have put me on magazine covers, because he was there. And even when he left, I followed. Quietly. I moved to Seattle too. Different circles, different careers. But same skyline. Same city. It was easier to lie to myself when we shared zip codes.

But the truth is, I haven't spoken to Jamie since Amy happened.

Amy Kaur. Lifestyle queen. Instagram-famous. Perfect smile, perfect timing. One minute I was psyching myself up to tell him the truth, and the next, she was twirling her hair and taking his hand. And just like that, the door between us slammed shut. I watched it happen and said nothing. I haven't said anything since.

Then came the engagement announcement.

It popped up on my feed while I was adjusting the laser calibrations on a prototype field loop. Jamie, smiling for the camera, arm around Amy, captioned with a diamond emoji and the words "She said yes." I dropped the wrench. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just stared at the screen until the edges blurred and the room felt impossibly cold. We used to talk every day. Now I wasn't even worth a text.

I think that was the moment I decided to finish building it. Not to ruin anything. Not to sabotage Amy. But because I couldn't keep living like a ghost in my own story. The machine, J. A. M. I. E., short for Just A Minute Intervention Engine, can take me back. Not just days. Not just hours. Years. Ten, to be precise. But I don't need ten. I only need nine. Along the way, I also built the Holloway Array, a stabilization matrix designed to monitor and recalibrate any shifts in causality if things started to spiral. If the timeline cracked, the array would detect the fault and reset the branch before it collapsed. It was my safety net, my failsafe, and my last act of caution in a plan built entirely on emotion.

It started with old movies. Black-and-white classics where someone races through time to stop a mistake or find the person they love. I watched them when I was a kid, curled up with my dad's blanket and a heart full of questions. Somewhere between Back to the Future and Somewhere in Time, the idea planted itself. What if love really could bend time?

So I bent it.

Not to rewrite history. Not to win. Just to find one minute that matters. A sliver of time to say the words I never had the courage to speak.

"Jamie, I love you."

CHAPTER - "Blueprints and Broken Hearts"

They say first love leaves a mark. Mine left formulas etched into the underside of my ribs and mathematical proofs scrawled behind my eyelids. While other girls were practicing signatures with their crush's last name, I was calculating the potential energy of unspoken feelings. At the center of it all was Jamie Knight. He was the boy who let me copy his notes, the boy who gave me his hoodie during freshman year, and the boy I never stopped loving. I thought I had time. I thought maybe one day, when I was brave enough, I'd tell him.

But then Amy Kaur showed up with perfect timing, a hundred-watt smile, and zero shame. She didn't wait. She didn't hesitate. She stepped in while I stood there overanalyzing everything. By the time I worked up the courage to say anything, Jamie was already holding her hand. The silence between us stretched, calcified, and eventually broke. That was nine years ago. He is still with her. She is still beautiful. And I am alone in a basement with a glowing machine that hums louder than my self-respect.

It looks like a broken water heater, which is exactly what I want people to think. The neighbors assume I'm fixing plumbing. If only. What I've actually built is something infinitely worse. J. A. M. I. E. Just-A-Minute Intervention Engine. Powered by quantum instability and my inability to let go. It is equal parts temporal distortion, untested math, and emotional sabotage. Also, I've wired it together with parts from a toaster oven and an old MRI magnet I borrowed from a university dumpster.

My lab is barely a lab. It's a cluttered tangle of wires, post-it notes, and half-drunk coffee cups. I sit in front of the console, staring at the activation sequence like it holds my last shot at sanity. Every time I close my eyes, I see Jamie's face the day we said goodbye after graduation. I remember every word he didn't say. So I built something that could rewind the clock and give us that conversation. Just one chance. One minute back.

I set the target date. September 4th, 2014. The last afternoon I had with him before everything changed. The afternoon Amy stepped in and smiled like she owned the future. My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly. I input his name. Jamie Knight. Then the location. Baseball field. Austin, Texas. Late summer, late afternoon. A perfect memory I've memorized to the decimal.

My throat is dry. I tell myself I am ready. I am not. Schrödy, my eternally unimpressed cat, watches from under a chair. His tail flicks once. Maybe that's approval. Or warning. Either way, I take a breath, lean forward, and press the button.

The lights flicker. The machine whirs. My stomach flips. Something smells faintly like burnt cinnamon, which is probably not a good sign. Electricity snaps in the air like it has something to prove. I hear the core start to spin faster. A low, melodic hum builds into something deeper. Something alive.

And just before the jump, right as the pressure in my chest tightens like a coiled spring, I whisper the only name that ever mattered. Jamie. Then the world bends in half and time cracks open like an egg on pavement.

CHAPTER - "Oh Look, I've Made a Teenager"

The first thing I feel is concrete. Cold, sticky, vaguely lemon-scented concrete pressed against my cheek. I open my eyes and immediately regret it. Harsh fluorescent lights flicker above me like they're auditioning for a horror film. A red mop bucket sits nearby. I blink, groan, and realize I've materialized in a janitor's closet. Because of course I have. Time travel, ladies and gentlemen. Not exactly glamorous.

I stumble out, heart pounding. The hallway is painfully familiar. Lockers that used to hold my books. Posters for prom that hasn't happened yet. It's 2014. I did it. I actually did it. The J. A. M. I. E. engine worked. I look down at myself. Hoodie, jeans, converse, goggles still dangling around my neck. I am somehow both overprepared and wildly underdressed for time infiltration.

I duck into the nearest bathroom to collect myself. Big mistake. There's already someone at the sink. She's muttering to herself, applying lip gloss with the kind of surgical precision only teenage girls and snipers possess. She looks up, sees me in the mirror... and freezes. My stomach drops. Because I know that face. It's mine. Seventeen-year-old me. Shorter hair. Less confidence. Same eyes. And she is staring at me like I just stepped out of a government van.

She opens her mouth to scream. I mirror her. For a solid five seconds, we just stand there shrieking at each other like mirror-image banshees. My brain short-circuits. I grab a paper towel and wave it like a flag of surrender. "Wait, wait! I can explain!"

Young Me points a trembling finger. "What the hell is going on? Who are you?"

My panic takes the wheel. "I'm your aunt. From Ohio. Visiting."

I say it fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid made of lies.

There's a long pause. She stares. Blinks. Her eyes narrow. "I don't have an aunt from Ohio."

I try to smile. "Yes, you do. I'm the one they never talk about. You know. The weird one."

Young Me tilts her head. "You mean the one Dad said joined a pyramid scheme and disappeared?"

"Exactly," I reply, relieved and horrified all at once. "That's me. Back and definitely not selling essential oils."

She doesn't scream again. That's a win. Instead, she folds her arms and eyes me like a lab rat that learned to juggle. "Why do you look like me?"

I pivot. "Because we share genes. Strong ones. Also, this hoodie is one of a kind. MIT gave it to me after I gave a lecture on particle collapse."

She laughs once. "Right. And I'm secretly dating Chris Evans."

"Good," I say. "Keep dreaming big. That attitude will get you through some really weird physics courses."

I can tell she's still suspicious, but something shifts. Maybe it's the goggles. Maybe it's the quiet authority in my voice. Or maybe it's just because she's never had a cool adult show up randomly with the exact same nervous energy. She takes a cautious step forward. "So... you're visiting. Why?"

I hesitate. I can't say "to stop Amy from ruining your life and stealing the boy you love." So I shrug and offer the only truth I can.

"To make sure you don't miss something important."

She snorts. "Like what?"

I look her in the eyes. "Like yourself."

CHAPTER - "Aunt Jules (Definitely Not a Time Traveler)"

Young Me doesn't trust me, which is fair, because I don't trust me either. Still, she lets me follow her around campus like some weird educational ghost. I hover in the periphery, dropping subtle hints between classes like I'm trying to rig a high school romance speedrun. "You know," I say casually, "if you ever think about telling Jamie how you feel, now would be a solid time. Not, like, full confession... just something casual. Like, 'Hey, I think you're cute and also I may have a future PhD built around the way your jaw tightens when you focus.'"

She stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Do you always smell like solder?"

"Only on emotionally significant days," I reply, which is true.

Young Me sighs and adjusts her backpack. "You're weird, Aunt Jules."

"You should see me at job interviews," I mutter. "Once quoted Star Trek in my resume cover letter. Still got the job."

By day three, students start recognizing me. Not in the good way. In the "why is that adult always standing suspiciously near the vending machines" way. A kid in gym class asks if I'm a new substitute. Someone else whispers that I'm an undercover narc. One overachiever asks if I'm shadowing for a thesis on adolescent behavioral patterns. I tell them I'm doing a "casual family audit." They nod like that makes any sense.

Amy Kaur, meanwhile, is moving through the hallways like a Disney villain with contouring. She laughs at Jamie's jokes with a hand on his arm. She twirls her hair like it's a weapon. And she always manages to be exactly where Jamie is, like she's tracking him with radar and body glitter. I catch her glaring at me once. I wave. She flips her hair and ignores me. Classic.

I try to steer things gently. Nudge my younger self toward Jamie during lunch. Offer reasons to hang out near the field house. Suggest volunteer signups she "happens" to share with him. But every time they get close, Amy swoops in with a perfectly rehearsed line and derails everything. It's like watching a slow-motion car crash, except I'm the one who installed the brakes and forgot to tell anyone.

Young Me is catching on, too. She's not dumb. She starts asking questions. "Why do you keep showing up before Jamie walks by?"

"I like the sunshine," I lie.

"In the hallway?"

"It's metaphorical sunshine," I mutter, trying to change the subject by pointing out a vaguely physics-related poster on the wall.

The problem is, the more time I spend here, the harder it is to stay detached. Every smile Jamie gives her--me--hits like a bruise I can't explain. Every moment that might have been mine once stings all over again. I thought time travel would let me fix things. But right now, it just feels like I've gone back to watch myself lose him all over again.

CHAPTER - "Operation: Un-Amy"

I didn't come back in time planning to sabotage a high school fundraiser, but that's how most of my great ideas start. Improvised. Poorly thought through. Mildly combustible. I overheard that Amy's "accidental" flirt launch was scheduled for the bake sale table during the Spring Spirit Carnival--her chance to offer Jamie a brownie with a side of batting-lash eye contact. It was the match strike moment. I couldn't let it happen. So I came prepared. With goggles, a little magnesium, and a plan that sounded way less insane in my head.

The setup was flawless. I pretended to help set up the science club booth next to the bake sale, slipped the capsule under a makeshift volcano, and waited. When Amy sauntered up to Jamie with a tray of brownies and that nightmare-level flirty laugh, I triggered the release. White smoke billowed from the fake volcano like Mount Vesuvius had thoughts about this relationship. Chaos followed. Screams. Coughing. Someone dropped a tray of cupcakes. I shouted "Chemical leak!" with all the conviction of someone who once gave a TEDx talk on disaster response systems.

The plan was supposed to create a barrier. Confusion, distance, maybe a temporary evacuation. What actually happened? Jamie, ever the gentleman, pulled Amy away from the smoke and shielded her like a hero in a YA adaptation. They stumbled back together, coughing and laughing, eyes locked like they had just survived a rom-com together. Amy clutched his arm, eyes wide and full of "oh my god you saved me" sparkle. I, meanwhile, got hit in the face with a stray muffin and nearly trampled by the chess club.

The aftermath was swift. Principal McAllister called me into his office and stared at me like I was a recurring dream he couldn't quite place. "Have we met before?" he asked, squinting. "Your face seems... oddly familiar." I panicked and said I used to model for toothpaste boxes. He didn't buy it, but he was too tired to argue. Instead, he handed me a warning and a pamphlet on appropriate volunteer conduct. I nodded solemnly and promised not to incite any more food-based emergencies.

Back outside, I found Young Me sitting on the bleachers, arms crossed, fuming. "What was that?" she asked, eyes narrowed like a disappointed math teacher.

"A tactical disruption," I said. "Theatrics with a purpose."

"You almost got trampled by a trombone player," she hissed. "I don't know what kind of weirdo spy mission you're running, but please stop helping."

I wanted to tell her the truth. That I was trying to save her from the heartbreak that would define the next decade of her life. That I'd trade every journal, every degree, every sleepless night at Caltech if I could just rewrite this one chapter. But instead, I sat beside her and offered a half-hearted shrug. "Sorry," I said. "Got a little carried away." She didn't respond. Just shook her head and muttered something about adult supervision being overrated.

Amy waved at Jamie from across the quad, still clinging to his flannel sleeve like it came with a marriage license. Jamie looked over, his eyes scanning the crowd, then landing on me. He frowned. Not angry. Not curious. Just... puzzled. Like he was trying to place a dream he'd almost forgotten. Then he smiled--small, polite, distant--and turned back to Amy. I felt that smile like a door closing.

Operation: Un-Amy was officially a bust. I had only made things worse. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I still believed I could fix it. I just needed a better plan. A safer distraction. Something that wouldn't end with pastries on the floor and my dignity smoldering in the breeze. So naturally, I decided the best next step was more time travel. Because clearly, my judgment was in top form.

CHAPTER - "The Jamie Factor"

The plan was simple. Go to the batting cages. Watch from a distance. Maybe offer a vague pep talk if the opportunity arose. What actually happened was me walking straight into Jamie's line of sight while tripping over a bucket of practice balls and knocking over a tee. Graceful, as always. He turned, glove in hand, smile blooming across his face, and said, "Hey... do I know you? You look really familiar." And just like that, I lost all control over my vocabulary.

My brain short-circuited. I meant to say something casual. Something non-suspicious. What came out was, "You remind me of someone I used to... stalk."

His eyebrows lifted.

"Study!" I corrected immediately, too fast and too loud. "Someone I used to study for a school... thing. Project. Totally academic."

"Right," he said, nodding slowly, lips twitching like he was trying not to laugh. "Well, glad to be of scholarly service."

Trying to recover, I offered to help collect the scattered balls I'd spilled. By the time we finished, I had somehow talked myself into being the temporary assistant to the JV team's pitching coach. I said I had a background in biomechanics and adolescent shoulder mechanics. Technically not a lie. My dissertation included both. Still, watching Jamie practice from behind a clipboard felt like trying to hide a crush inside a science lecture. Pointless. Transparent.

He was every bit the version of him I remembered. Effortlessly kind, grounded, full of the kind of charm that made even small talk feel like sunlight. When he smiled, I felt seventeen again. Not the awkward, anxious seventeen I was--but the version I wanted to be. The one who believed maybe he could love her back. Except now, every second I spent near him was stolen time. And I could already feel the countdown ticking.

Amy showed up halfway through practice. Of course she did. Wearing perfectly distressed jeans and a top that said "casual" in that terrifying, deliberate way she always managed. She greeted Jamie with a kiss on the cheek and looked right at me afterward. "Hey," she said with a plastic smile. "You're Julie's aunt, right?"

I froze. "That's me."

"Huh," she said, tilting her head. "Funny. I didn't know Julie had family in town. Or that her family was... so young."

"Good skincare," I said, trying to laugh. "And yoga." I had never done yoga in my life.

She didn't buy it. I could see it in her eyes. Amy had shark instincts. If something didn't fit the narrative, she'd circle until she figured it out. I made a note to stay out of her way, which, ironically, probably guaranteed she'd pay more attention. Jamie, blissfully unaware of the cold war playing out behind him, just kept swinging in the cage, each hit echoing like a heartbeat in my chest.

Later that day, Young Me cornered me in the hallway. "Are you seriously working for the baseball team now?" she asked, arms crossed.

"It's for science," I said.

"It's for Jamie," she replied, not even pretending to believe me.

And she wasn't wrong. Being close to him made everything more dangerous. But I also wasn't ready to step away. Not yet. Because part of me still believed that somewhere in all this, there was a version of us worth fighting for.

CHAPTER -- "Echoes of the Future"

It started small. A flicker here, a stutter there. At first, I chalked it up to lack of sleep and secondhand cafeteria food. But then I heard it, a ringtone that hadn't existed in 2014. A deep synth buzz that belonged to a model of smartphone still two years from release. The girl next to me didn't seem to notice. She answered like it was the most normal thing in the world. I stood there, frozen, listening to a future that shouldn't be possible humming in her hand.

Things escalated. The vending machine outside the gym beeped when someone waved their student ID at it. Contactless payment didn't hit schools like this until at least 2017. The ID wasn't even equipped for it. But it worked. And when I leaned in to look closer, I saw my reflection shimmer, just for a second. Like reality couldn't decide which version of me it wanted to render. That's when I knew. J. A. M. I. E. was glitching. And the timeline was starting to bend in ways I hadn't calculated.

The Holloway Array should have caught it. That was what it was built for, to detect anomalies, recalibrate the local branch, and reroute collapse before it rippled. But it hadn't. No alerts. No resets. Just silence. Like even the backup system had started to give up on me.

I ran back to the supply closet where I kept the failsafe node hidden inside a fake AV cart. Just a minor reset, I told myself. Realign the anchor point, patch the anomalies, smooth the ripple. Easy. Except I forgot one very important thing: nothing about time travel is easy. I tapped the command pad, initiated the cycle, and braced for the usual nausea and flash. Instead, I got silence. No light. Just a shift. I opened my eyes to find myself exactly where I'd been, but three hours earlier. Trapped in the school library.

And I wasn't alone. Sitting at the far table was none other than Mr. Clayborne. My least favorite chemistry teacher. The man who once docked my final grade for "disruptive curiosity." Younger, with less gray hair but the same condescending smirk. He looked up from his copy of The Periodic Table: A Philosophical Approach and said, "Do you belong here?"

"Honestly? Never have," I muttered, ducking behind the bookshelves before he could ask more questions. I didn't need a paradox lecture from the man who once confused cesium with calcium.

I paced the stacks, trying not to panic. The reset didn't just glitch. It unmoored me. There was no sign of the failsafe node. My pocket watch anchor buzzed erratically, its numbers scrambling like digital static. I was off-script now, floating somewhere between planned intervention and temporal meltdown. And then, like salt in a wound, Jamie walked past the library window.

He wasn't alone. Amy was beside him, talking animatedly. He wasn't looking at her though. He glanced at the window. Right at me. And for a second, our eyes met. Not a fleeting glance, something slower. Curious. Familiar. His brow furrowed like he was trying to remember a dream. Then he smiled. Soft. Gentle. Like he almost knew who I was.

It should have made me feel triumphant. A cosmic wink from the universe. But it didn't. Because the smile wasn't for the real me. Not the version who stayed up building machines in her basement, not the girl who whispered his name into a time core. It was for a shadow. A stranger. A ghost he couldn't place. And the way he turned back to Amy, still smiling, nearly broke me.

I sank to the floor between the shelves, pressing my back against the cool wall. My heart thudded in my ears. Time was cracking around me. The past was bleeding into the future. I was losing the thread. And worst of all, I was starting to forget why I ever thought I could fix this.

CHAPTER - "Timeline #4 -- The Choir Boy Paradox"

Rewiring J. A. M. I. E. is not therapeutic. It's mostly frustrating, occasionally shocking, and always judged silently by Schrödy, who sits perched on top of my physics bookshelf like a furry oracle of bad decisions. His eyes narrow as I tighten the last capacitor. "Don't look at me like that," I mutter. "This is the least dangerous plan I've had all week." He blinks slowly, unimpressed. I take that as his way of saying, "You're about to ruin something again."

My new plan is simple. Target the day before Amy's first flirtation. Not her grand romantic assault at the bake sale. No. This time I'm cutting it off earlier during choir auditions. That's when she first caught Jamie's attention with her breathy rendition of "Teenage Dream" and a very distracting knee-length skirt. I just need to shift the sequence. Throw a wrench into Amy's spotlight. Not a literal wrench. I've learned from that.

I jump back. The hallways blur. Time bends. And I land in the drama wing's music room, sweaty and slightly nauseous but intact. I scribble a fake name on the sign-up sheet. "June Hollow," which sounds just fake enough to be real. When it's my turn, I walk to center stage with full confidence and absolutely no plan to impress. I clear my throat, smile at Jamie in the third row, and proceed to sing "Living on a Prayer" two octaves too high.

Jamie covers his mouth, clearly fighting laughter. Amy looks like someone just insulted her skincare routine. She shoots me a look that could curdle milk. I finish with jazz hands and an enthusiastic bow. It's horrible. It's glorious. I consider it a win. Jamie claps out of polite obligation. Amy glares at me like I just ran over her future Instagram sponsorship.

But then, the universe, cruel, ironic, and fully committed to humbling me, intervenes. Jamie doesn't fall for Amy this time. That's the good news. The bad news is that he gets recruited to join choir himself, just to balance the baritones. And that's where he meets Vanessa. Beautiful, kind, musically gifted Vanessa, who sings like she was born in a Disney montage and has dimples that could derail a train.

They click instantly. It's sickening. Their duet at rehearsal is a war crime against my mental stability. Vanessa even thanks me after. "You were so brave up there. It inspired me to try out." I smile through my teeth and say something supportive, then excuse myself to the janitor's closet and scream into a paper towel roll for five straight minutes.

Later that night, I sit in the girls' locker room, surrounded by sheet music and failed expectations, questioning every choice I've made since building J. A. M. I. E. I scroll through my notes and find five separate versions of "Fix Timeline: Jamie Edition" with increasingly unhinged sub-plans. Choir sabotage was supposed to be a clever detour. Instead, I accidentally introduced his soulmate.

As I prep for another jump, Schrödy headbutts the edge of the machine like he's had enough of my emotional instability bleeding into the quantum circuits. "Don't worry," I whisper, "this one'll work." But even I don't believe it. Because no matter how many times I mess with the past, the future keeps slipping further away.

CHAPTER - "The Basketball Incident (aka Timeline #6)"

By the time I decided to sabotage Jamie's championship game, I had convinced myself it was noble. Strategic, even. That single event had been a turning point. The game where Amy gave him a pep talk, and he credited her afterward for calming his nerves and helping him focus. I figured if I could keep him from even showing up, maybe that thread never weaves itself into the tapestry of their shared history. Simple disruption. Low stakes. Just me, a bike, and a vaguely reckless sense of timing.

The plan was absurd. I borrowed a bike from the back of the gym and waited at the edge of the parking lot where I knew Jamie always passed through on his way to the gym. As soon as I spotted his car, I launched myself into a controlled tumble and landed in a dramatic sprawl directly in front of his bumper. I even added a scream for flair. Schrödy would've rolled his eyes so hard he'd throw out a whisker.

Jamie slammed the brakes, jumped out of the car, and sprinted over. "Are you okay? What happened?"

I clutched my ankle and gave him my best doe-eyed look. "I was riding to the library and hit a curb. I think I twisted it. I'm so sorry, I didn't see you."

He helped me up, worry written all over his face. The gentleness in his touch nearly unraveled me. "Do you want me to take you to the nurse?"

"Yes," I said. "But also, can we talk? Just... for a minute?"

We sat on the hood of his car while I milked my fake injury for all it was worth. I babbled about books, school, and fate--trying to seem both mysterious and tragically injured. He smiled a few times, especially when I told a story about us as kids, which he didn't remember but pretended to. I felt like maybe, finally, I was making progress. Time stretched, and I let it. Because I wanted to believe that one detour could change everything.

And it did. Just not the way I hoped. Jamie missed the game. His team lost by two points. The star guard dislocated his thumb mid-match, and they needed Jamie to step in. Without him, it unraveled. The coach called it sabotage. His teammates called it betrayal. And the school called it unforgivable. By Monday, Jamie's name was scratched out of locker room posters. Students whispered behind his back. Someone tagged "TRAITOR" on his gym locker.

And me? I became "that random narc who ruined State." I wasn't even cool enough to be remembered as mysterious. I was just a cautionary tale. Jamie stopped showing up to lunch. Stopped walking the usual halls. And when I saw him again--briefly, fleetingly--his eyes passed over me like I wasn't there. Like I had never been there at all.

I went back to the J. A. M. I. E. console, throat tight, vision blurry. I didn't even initiate a reset right away. I just sat there, hands trembling over the buttons, whispering apologies into the humming silence. I wanted to cry but couldn't. Instead, I pressed my forehead against the edge of the panel and whispered, "I'm sorry. I just wanted one good minute." The lights blinked, indifferent. Schrödy watched from the corner, tail twitching, as if to say, "You really screwed it up this time." And he wasn't wrong.

CHAPTER - "When Aunt Karen Met the Principal"

After the basketball disaster, I promised myself no more grand gestures. No more emotional Hail Marys. Just a low-impact timeline nudge. A gentle course correction. Something subtle and mature, like a responsible adult time traveler. So naturally, I signed up to volunteer for parent-teacher night under a fake identity and tried to blend in with the grown-ups. It was going fine until I realized I had reused the name "Karen Hollow" from timeline number two. Which, in retrospect, was like time-traveling with a neon sign that said "HEY, REMEMBER ME?"

Principal McAllister stared at my name badge for a full five seconds before raising an eyebrow. "Didn't I meet you last month? Something about a vending machine malfunction?"

"No," I said too quickly. "That was... someone else. A different Karen. I get that a lot."

The school nurse walked by, squinted at me, and said, "Weren't you the woman who tried to donate synthetic blood to the biology lab?"

"That also wasn't me," I replied. "But she sounds innovative."

I tried to escape to the snack table, but it was too late. The JV coach spotted me across the room and called out, "Hey! You're the one who applied to be a crossing guard, right? You had some ideas about traffic flow optimization?"

I nodded slowly. "I just care deeply about safe intersections."

His face lit up. "We could use that kind of passion on game days."

I smiled, pretending I wasn't internally screaming into a void.

Then came the final nail. Jamie walked by, dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, helping his old math teacher set up a projector. He glanced my way, did a double take, and grinned. "Hey. It's the lady who always smells like burned batteries."

I froze. "That's oddly specific."

He laughed. "You kind of have a signature scent. It's like... robotic campfire."

My cheeks flushed. "It's... science."

Amy followed right behind him, of course. She gave me a long, slow blink and a smug half-smile, then looped her arm through his. I wanted to vanish into a trash can. Instead, I smiled politely and walked backward into the supply closet, pretending I needed to "check inventory" like that was something people did voluntarily at parent-teacher night.

Inside the closet, I slammed the door, leaned against the mop bucket, and whispered, "Kill me now." I yanked out the emergency override on my pocket reset switch, wincing as the coil spun and the lights inside my watch pulsed erratically. Schrödy's smug little face flickered in my mind, probably judging me from nine timelines away. This wasn't a mission anymore. It was a multiverse-length embarrassment reel.

I activated the reboot. The air shimmered, and time twisted, but not before I caught my own reflection in the closet's dusty mirror--fake name tag crooked, hair frizzed from static, and eyes wide with regret. Aunt Karen was officially retired. Forever. Probably. Maybe. Okay, fine, I didn't delete the ID file yet. But still. Low impact, I had told myself. It was supposed to be low impact.

CHAPTER - "The Julie Multiverse Meltdown"

Time travel isn't just physically exhausting. It's emotionally corrosive. After six resets, I can barely remember which timeline I'm in. My watch anchor glitches. My memories overlap. In one moment, I swear Jamie told me he liked my hair, and in the next, that same day ends with him asking Amy to prom. I've started writing everything down on my forearm with a Sharpie just to keep track of what did or didn't happen. Schrödy doesn't even bother following me into the lab anymore. He just watches from the stairs like I've become something pitiful.

It gets worse when the echoes start. I see other versions of me. Not reflections, glimpses. Quick flashes of Julies who made different choices. One moved to London, gave up on Jamie entirely, and now runs a feminist sci-fi book café with a woman named Ramona who has incredible eyebrows. Another turned J. A. M. I. E. into an app called Secondz, launched it on the App Store, and made a disgusting amount of money by marketing it as a "micro regret fixer." The reviews are mostly five stars.

Then there's the weird one. The one in the sunglasses and silk robe, casually walking past a hallway mirror surrounded by laughter and suspiciously soft lighting. I get one good look at the room behind her and yep. Definitely an orgy. She winks at me. I shut the vision off like it's a pop-up ad. That Julie clearly embraced chaos. Good for her, I guess. But also, what the hell.

The worst one, though, is the version who never left. Still stuck in 2014. Still pining from across the cafeteria. Still watching Amy with a broken smile and a heart full of silence. She hasn't even built the machine yet. She hasn't moved. Just sits in the bleachers, year after year, hoping something will change. That version guts me. Because she isn't trying. But worse, she believes she is.

All the versions of me are doing something different. One reinvents. One exploits. One experiments with very questionable polyamorous decisions. And one waits. But none of them are happy. Not really. I keep telling myself I'm here to fix the timeline, to right a wrong. But what I'm actually doing is running. Over and over. From rejection. From vulnerability. From the possibility that maybe Jamie was never mine to begin with.

The Holloway Array should be stabilizing these divergences, limiting the number of echoes that fracture from a single branch. That was the whole point. One timeline. One path. One version of me. But it's not holding. Not anymore. The safety net is unraveling along with my logic.

My chest feels like it's full of broken wiring. I stare at the console, trying to remember which switch resets this version of reality. I can't keep track. I'm chasing ghosts through time, trying to turn feelings into equations. And every loop just makes the pain a little sharper. A little louder. I'm not a genius. I'm a coward with a doctorate and a trauma-powered time machine.

I sit down on the floor, back against the lab bench, and close my eyes. No jumps. No resets. No whispered "just one more try." Just breathing. The hum of the machine fades behind me, and I finally say it out loud. "I'm not fixing anything. I'm hiding." The words hang there, like smoke. And maybe, saying it means I'm ready to stop. Maybe.

Schrödy pads over and curls up next to my leg without judgment. I scratch behind his ears and rest my head against the wall. Maybe there's still one thing I haven't tried. Not a new reset. Not another version of me. Just the truth. Raw and unrevised. It scares me more than any paradox ever could. But maybe that's the point.

CHAPTER - "The Amy Problem"

I don't remember jumping back. Not exactly. One minute I was crying into Schrödy's fur, the next I was waking up in the school's auditorium storage room with a splitting headache and glitter in my hair. A cruel bonus, courtesy of the drama club. My watch anchor is barely stable. The console at home is fried. I think I'm back in the original timeline, but honestly, who can say anymore? Everything feels slightly off, like the room's been rearranged by someone with a grudge and a bad sense of symmetry.

I drag myself out, only to find Amy Kaur waiting for me near the back stairwell, arms crossed and fury barely contained beneath a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She's holding a few pages of my handwriting--the ones I ripped out of an old physics journal and stuffed into my locker for safekeeping. She must've found them. Of course she did. "You pathetic little science witch," she says, voice sharp enough to slice through time itself.

I open my mouth, ready to deny it, but I don't bother. I'm too tired. Too done. Instead, I laugh once and say, "That's rich coming from someone who lied her way into his life with lip gloss and weaponized timing."

Her eyes narrow. "You think this is about lying? I saw an opportunity. You saw a maybe and choked on it."

"At least I didn't manipulate him," I snap. "I didn't dangle affection like a prize in a rigged game."

"Right," she says, stepping closer. "You just built a time machine to undo my existence."

She waves the journal pages in my face like evidence in a trial. "He deserves to know. About all of this. About what you've done."

"Then tell him," I say, stepping forward. "Go ahead. Tell him I tried to undo history for one more minute with him. Tell him I failed. You want to win? Win honestly."

She doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just stands there, breathing hard. And for a second, I realize she's not angry. She's scared. Because part of her knows she never really won him at all.

Neither of us says it out loud, but the silence is heavy. Amy crumples the pages in her hand and shoves them into her purse. "You're pathetic," she mutters.

"I know," I reply. "But I'm not the one who has to sleep next to someone wondering if they're dreaming of someone else."

That one lands. Her expression tightens, then she storms off. I lean against the wall, heart pounding, adrenaline fading. I should feel vindicated, maybe even smug. But all I feel is hollow.

I slide to the floor and stare at the scuffed tile. The truth hits me like a gut punch. I don't hate Amy. Not really. I hate that I let her win without ever stepping onto the field. I hate that I gave up before I ever fought for him. That I waited until I could rewrite time instead of just saying how I felt. All this time, I blamed her. But the real problem wasn't Amy. It was me. And the clock I kept hiding behind.

CHAPTER - "Terminal Timeline Syndrome"

The final jump isn't supposed to happen. I mean, it shouldn't even be possible. The J. A. M. I. E. engine is cracked. My watch anchor is shot. Schrödy has officially abandoned me for the safety of the kitchen sink. But desperation has a way of bending physics, and so does love if you abuse it hard enough. I reroute a backup capacitor, rerun the prime loop, and slam the override button. The machine screams. Sparks fly. The walls quake like the timeline itself is throwing a tantrum. I feel the tear in the air before I see it, a pulse of white-hot energy and noise folding me in.

I land in my bedroom. But not the one I left. This one is impossibly warm. Soft. Safe. There are wedding photos on the nightstand with me and Jamie, grinning like idiots. His baseball cap hangs from a hook on the closet door. Laughter echoes from the hallway, something clumsy and happy. A child's giggle. The smell of fresh coffee drifts in. My heart lurches. It worked. It finally worked.

I take two steps before I notice something strange. The light doesn't shift quite right. The details blur if I focus too long. The photos don't reflect the real moments. They're approximations. Fabricated joy. It clicks all at once. This isn't a win. This is a hallucination. A side effect of pushing the machine too far. I'm not home. I'm lost in a feedback loop. My body might still be in the lab. Or worse, nowhere at all.

The Holloway Array was supposed to catch this. It was designed to detect recursive hallucinations, paradox loops, and misfired anchor collapses. But it didn't. No failsafe triggered. No loop closed. Which means the system has failed completely, or I've gone too far beyond its reach to be retrieved.

I turn to the corner of the room and nearly fall over. She's standing there. Me. But younger. The version of me from that first jump. She looks at the wedding photo, then back at me, eyes wide and terrified. "I don't want to become you," she says, voice trembling. "You're not happy. You're tired. You look empty."

I swallow hard. "I am."

She shakes her head. "Why would you keep doing this to yourself?"

My throat tightens. "Because I thought if I could just change one thing, I'd get him back."

She doesn't cry. She just looks at me like she's already mourning what I've become. I step closer, the illusion flickering around us. The walls groan. The perfect world fractures at the seams. The laughter fades.

"If this is what winning looks like," she says softly, "I don't want it."

I reach out, barely able to steady myself. "Then don't," I whisper. "Choose differently. Say what I never said."

The dream crashes. Light pours through the cracks. The wedding photos curl inward. Jamie's laughter dissolves like static. I fall backward through the noise, pulled away from that false life, from the younger me, from the version I almost trapped myself in forever. I hear Schrödy's meow like a lifeline, sharp and real and maddening.

I wake up on the lab floor, gasping. The machine is fried. My limbs ache. Smoke curls from the console. There's no backup left. No resets. No loops. Just one last version of me, breathing and broken, staring up at a cracked ceiling and wondering if she still has the courage to do the one thing she never tried. Be honest. Without science. Without rewinds. Just her, and the truth.

CHAPTER - "The Last Reset"

The room is still. No humming circuits. No flickering coils. Just me, sitting on the cold basement floor beside a scorched console and a time machine that gave up before I did. J. A. M. I. E. is done. The core is cracked. The casing is warped. The notes I taped to the monitor are singed around the edges. I touch the side of the machine and it creaks like something breathing its last. And maybe, in some way, it was. The thing I built out of heartbreak and hope finally gave up trying to save me.

I feel the same. Burnt out. Hollowed. I ran through timelines like a gambler chasing a winning hand, thinking if I just played one more round, I could cheat fate. That I could fix the moment I never had the courage to claim. But I didn't fix anything. I just made a mess of it in every direction. The truth is, the version of Jamie I've been chasing doesn't exist anymore. Not like he used to. And maybe the version of me who loved him never stopped hiding.

I sit in the dark, watching dust dance through a shaft of early morning light cutting across the room. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself remember without trying to edit the memory. Jamie's laugh echoing down the hallway in middle school. The way he used to call me "Doc" before I even dreamed of grad school. The way he looked at me once at the senior bonfire, when the flames flickered just right, and for half a second I thought maybe he saw me the way I saw him.

That girl, the one who never spoke up, is gone now. But the ache she left behind is still here. Only now, it isn't about rewriting the past. It's about facing it. Accepting that I didn't say what I needed to when it counted. That I let silence do the talking for me. And that perhaps it's not too late to speak now, even if the timeline is broken and my dignity is on life support.

I drag myself to my feet, my joints stiff from sitting too long in the cold. I head upstairs, past Schrödy, who blinks at me with passive-aggressive indifference. I step into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. The girl staring back in the mirror has messy hair and sleep-deprived eyes, but she also has something else. A spark. A sliver of clarity. And maybe even a little courage.

I pull on my favorite hoodie, the one Jamie once stole for a weekend and returned with a mustard stain and an apology. I tie my hair back. I grab my keys. There's no plan this time. No reset. No script. Just a heartbeat, a choice, and the quiet knowledge that if I don't do this now, I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what would've happened if I had.

The sun is just starting to rise when I step out the door. The air is crisp, Seattle gray with a hint of hope in the clouds. My steps are slow at first. Careful. But as I walk, I feel the weight I've been dragging across a dozen timelines start to lift. I don't know what I'll say when I see him. I don't even know if he'll open the door. But I know this--I'm done hiding behind science. Behind machines. Behind fear.

This is it. My last reset. Not a jump through time, but a leap into honesty. Into whatever comes next. And for the first time since I whispered his name into a quantum core, I'm not afraid of where I land.

CHAPTER - "The Longest Shortcut"

I'm halfway down the block when I stop walking.

The street is quiet, wrapped in that early morning calm where the world still hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be. The air smells like damp concrete and budding possibilities. Jamie's building is behind me now. Just a turn away. Just a few dozen steps. Just one elevator ride between me and everything I've ever wanted to say.

And yet, I stand still.

My fingers twitch in my pocket, brushing against my keys. My legs want to keep going. But my chest pulls me backward, not out of fear this time--but because something isn't finished. Something still hums faintly at the edge of my thoughts like a machine left running in the basement of my memory. I can't go forward like this. Not yet.

The truth is, I came here with scraps of courage and no plan. I thought if I just said the words, that would be enough. But part of me still clung to the idea that if I messed up, I could fix it. Again. And again. That I'd fall back on the machine one more time. That somewhere in the mess of wires and paradoxes, I had a safety net. I don't want that anymore.

I turn around.

My footsteps echo as I retrace the path, slower now. The sidewalk is slick from last night's rain, and everything feels colder in the shadow of the choice I haven't made yet. The one I have to make. I can't keep the machine. I can't keep holding on to the past with one hand while reaching for the future with the other. It doesn't work like that. Not anymore.

I need to go home. Not to rest. Not to regroup. To destroy it. The J. A. M. I. E. engine. Every wire. Every capacitor. Every ghost of every version of me that ever thought love could be calculated or engineered. It can't. And I won't go back to Jamie with a reset switch buzzing in the background like a coward's insurance policy.

So I walk. Not away this time, but toward the one thing I never thought I'd have the strength to do.

Let go.

And mean it.

CHAPTER - "Goodbye, J. A. M. I. E."

The house is too quiet. No hum from the core, no soft clicking of thermal coils, no faint whirring from the stabilizer fans. Just the low purring of Schrödy, curled on the corner of the workbench like a retired supervisor, and the sound of my own breathing. I stare at the machine that used to hold my heart like a glass jar. J. A. M. I. E. is dark. Burnt. Twisted at the seams. It's the first time I've seen it look like what it really is, a failed gamble on love and math.

I roll up my sleeves and reach for the toolkit. Every screw I twist loose is a memory. The ion modulator reminds me of Timeline Number Four, the Choir Boy disaster. The fiber matrix brings back Timeline Number Six, the infamous basketball incident that made me public enemy number one. I disconnect the neural anchor relay and remember Vanessa's perfect smile, the duet that buried me. Some components make me laugh. Most don't.

Each piece has weight. Not just physical, but emotional. Like I'm unpacking every version of myself that thought she could trick time into mercy. My fingers shake as I dislodge the backup memory chip. This one came from the iteration where I sang badly on purpose and somehow triggered a love triangle that didn't even include me. I set it aside gently. Not out of sentimentality, but because I can't bring myself to throw it away just yet.

The core takes more effort. It's fused from heat and desperation, still pulsing faintly under the warped housing. I brace one foot against the chassis and pull it free with a wrench and a grunt. The capacitor pops out with a dull snap, and I finally see it taped to the side like a forgotten note from the past. A photo of Jamie and me. Ten years old. Faces red from the Texas sun, grinning with popsicle-stained teeth. The edges are curled. The tape is yellowed.

I stare at it for too long. Every version of me came back to this one image. This proof that, once, before all of this, he was mine in the purest, most innocent way. Just a friend. Just a boy who made me feel seen. I think about keeping it. I really do. But instead, I drop it on the floor and bring the wrench down. Once. Hard. The plastic cracks. The photo splits. There's no going back now.

I sit on the stool and let the silence stretch. Schrödy hops down, sniffing the ruined core like he's checking for signs of life. There are none. I whisper, "Goodbye, Just-A-Minute." I look at the broken parts scattered around me. "Hello, Just-A-Mess." Schrödy blinks at me and yawns. If cats had opinions about time travel and emotional recovery, he'd probably tell me I should've done this six disasters ago.

It's strange. There's no dramatic swell of music. No applause. Just the faint ache of clarity settling into my bones. I built this thing to steal back time. To reclaim a conversation I never had. But the truth is, I don't need time travel anymore. I need truth. And if Jamie doesn't feel the same? Then at least I'll know. No loops. No resets. Just an answer. Finally.

I pack up the last of the tools and flick off the breaker. The lab dims to shadows. The J. A. M. I. E. engine is dead. But I'm not. I walk upstairs with the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips and a new kind of weight in my chest. Not regret. Not yet. Just possibility. The kind that only lives in the present.

CHAPTER - "The Walk of Maybe"

Seattle mornings are a kind of gray that seeps into your thoughts if you let it. I shove my hands into my hoodie pockets and pace the wet sidewalks like I'm either chasing destiny or actively avoiding a nervous breakdown. Schrödy watched me leave like he didn't expect me to return. Fair. I don't know if I expect me to return. All I know is that the weight in my chest feels a little lighter without a time machine dragging behind it.

I rehearse the words. Again. Then again. "Hey Jamie, so, funny thing, I accidentally invented time travel and used it entirely to avoid talking to you like a normal person." No. Too honest. "I've always loved you, in that deeply repressed way people write songs about." Too dramatic. "What's up, remember me? I'm the awkward girl who may or may not have faked a bike crash to talk to you once." Too real. I go through poetic confessions, casual shrugs, and quantum puns. None of them fit. I feel like I'm trying on versions of myself that don't quite zip up all the way.

The closer I get to his building, the faster my heart beats. The world around me fades to background static. Just coffee shops opening early, joggers with earbuds, the low rumble of a bus crawling uphill. My shoes splash through a shallow puddle. I barely notice. This is what determination feels like. And terror. Mostly terror.

I stop at the corner, staring across the street at Jamie's building. Brick and glass. Clean lines. The place where he lives, probably surrounded by furniture Amy picked and scented candles that make everything smell like a curated lifestyle. I take one step off the curb and then I see it. Amy's car. Parked out front. Top down. Trademark sunglasses resting on the dash like she owns the weather. My heart sinks so fast it feels like gravity betrayed me.

For a full ten seconds, I consider turning around. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe I was never meant to have this conversation. Maybe Schrödy was right to glare at me like I left my sanity next to the litter box. I take a step back. Then another. I tell myself I'll try again another day. When she's not here. When I'm braver. When the stakes aren't so terrifyingly high.

But I don't keep walking. I stop. My fists clench at my sides, and I look back at that building like it owes me something. And maybe it does. Maybe I owe it to myself to stop letting other people's presence dictate my own silence. Amy being here changes nothing. She's been in the way for nine years. I let her stay there.

I take a breath and cross the street. Not fast. Not with purpose. Just with the kind of quiet defiance that says, "I'm not running anymore." The air is cool, damp, and full of possibilities I can't predict. I don't know what I'm going to say when I see Jamie. I don't know if I'll fall apart or find some version of myself that finally knows how to stand still.

All I know is I'm going to knock on his door. And whatever happens after that, it will be real. No resets. No loops. Just the truth, however messy it decides to be.

CHAPTER - "Amy's Last Stand"

The lobby smells like lemon polish and tension. I step through the front doors, barely glancing at the security desk. My legs move on instinct now. No hesitation. No detours. Just the elevator bank ahead of me and the quiet hum of nerves curling under my ribs. But when I reach it, the doors slide open, and Amy is already there. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, like she's been waiting for this moment since I first broke the laws of physics.

She doesn't smile. Just narrows her eyes and steps in front of me. "You think you can just show up?"

I meet her gaze without flinching. "No. I think I can finish."

She scoffs, but her jaw tightens. "He's with me, Julie. He said yes. That ring on my hand? It means something."

"Maybe," I say, voice low, "but it doesn't mean he's happy."

She takes a step forward, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Something expensive. Something too sweet. "I know what you're doing," she hisses. "You're chasing a fantasy. One conversation won't change the last nine years. You lost."

I don't look away. "Then let me lose to his face."

She shoves me. Hard. Not playful. Not dramatic. Just sharp, deliberate anger.

I stumble back a step, steady myself, and then shove her right back.

And then I swing. My fist connects with her jaw in a satisfying, clean hit. Amy stumbles into the elevator railing, eyes wide with shock. Her hand flies to her face, mascara already smudging.

"That's for 2016," I say, panting.

"And 2019."

Amy glares, speechless.

"And literally all of 2020."

The elevator dings behind her, doors still open like the universe decided to hold its breath. I step forward, brushing past her as she steadies herself. She doesn't stop me this time. Just leans against the wall, cradling her jaw and staring like she doesn't know whether to scream or cry.

I hit the button for Jamie's floor. The doors begin to close.

Amy speaks once more, voice low. "He won't choose you."

I look at her through the narrowing gap. "He doesn't have to. I'm not here to win. I'm here to be honest."

Then the doors shut. The hum of the elevator rises. And for the first time in years, I'm not the girl hiding in the background. I'm the one walking toward whatever comes next.

CHAPTER - "I Love You (With No Safety Net)"

The door swings open before I can knock. Jamie's voice carries through the entryway, casual but distracted. He's on the phone, pacing near the kitchen in jeans and a gray T-shirt that looks far too good on him for someone who probably just woke up. He doesn't see me right away. Not until I clear my throat and step forward, hands clenched, heart hammering.

He turns. The phone is at his ear for maybe half a second longer before he lowers it and says, "I've got to go," then hangs up without another word. The silence that follows is immediate. Dense. The kind that makes every breath sound too loud. We just stand there, staring at each other. Him at me like he doesn't know what to say. Me at him like I've already said it all in a thousand fractured timelines.

And then I say it for real. No edits. No resets. No scientific disclaimers. "I love you." My voice shakes, but I keep going. "I always have. Since forever. Since before I even knew what that meant. And I should've told you sooner. I should've said it without a time machine strapped to my back."

He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just watches me with those stupid blue eyes that have haunted every version of me I've ever been. I expect him to laugh. Or scoff. Or give me the kind of polite letdown reserved for old friends who should know better. I brace for it. I wait for the emotional crash I've been engineering myself away from for years.

But he doesn't do any of that. He takes a step forward. Then another. And another. Still no words. Just this look on his face like he's trying to read me and remember me all at once. Like I'm a photograph he hasn't seen in years and suddenly realizes he's been carrying around in his wallet the whole time.

I stand my ground. Barely. My knees are considering collapse as a viable option. "You don't have to say anything," I whisper. "I just needed to tell you. Once. Without hiding behind equations or pretending I don't care. I care. So much it makes me stupid."

He stops a foot away from me. Close enough that I can feel his breath, his warmth, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for something but isn't sure if it's real. He studies me, slow and careful, like I might vanish if he blinks too long.

And then, still without saying a word, Jamie reaches up, cups my face in his hands, and kisses me. No build-up. No hesitation. Just lips on mine like the moment always existed and we finally arrived at it. I close my eyes, and for once, time doesn't move. It holds still. Just long enough to mean everything.

CHAPTER - "The Kiss That Stops Time"

His lips are soft, steady, and real in a way nothing else in my life has been for a long, long time. No circuits, no equations humming in the background. No countdowns or quantum math flashing through my mind. Just the weight of his hands on my face and the warmth of his breath against mine. This is not a dream or a loop or a wish whispered into the heart of a machine. This is Jamie. Kissing me. And I don't need a reset button to know I never want it to stop.

There's no music swelling in the background, no cinematic fade to black. It's quiet. Still. My heart's beating like a bass drum, but the world outside feels suspended. Like time, after fighting me for so long, finally decided to step aside and let me have this one moment. And this time, I'm not running from it. I let it happen. I let him kiss me. I kiss him back like the universe didn't give me a hundred chances to screw this up and I took all of them just to land right here.

He pulls back just a little, just enough to breathe, forehead resting against mine. He grins, stupid and sweet. "You idiot," he says softly. "I've been waiting nine years."

My eyes sting with tears I didn't know I still had left. "You kissed me before I could overthink it."

He chuckles. "Time was up. You finally caught up."

I laugh through a half-sob and wipe my cheek on the sleeve of the hoodie he once stole. "You have no idea how true that is."

Then his smile tilts, curious. He leans back just enough to really look at me. "Wait. Did you say you had a time machine?"

My entire soul pauses. My mouth opens. Closes. I blink at him like maybe if I don't say anything, he'll forget. "I... might've. In theory."

"In theory?" he repeats, lifting a brow. "Julie."

"It was a very small, unsanctioned project," I mumble. "Also possibly a toaster oven at one point."

He shakes his head, half amused, half amazed. "You built a time machine. To tell me you love me?"

"I mean, not just that," I say quickly. "There were other side goals. Sort of. But mostly yes."

He reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently. "You could've just knocked on my door."

"I'm working on that part," I say, smiling despite myself. "From now on, no more machines. Just me. Just you. One minute at a time."

CHAPTER - "One Minute Forward"

The sky is soft today. That's the word for it. Not bright or blue or dazzling--just soft, like the world finally decided to ease up for a second. I walk through the park with Jamie's hand in mine, our fingers laced like we've been doing this forever. It's warm and easy and so normal it almost feels surreal. There's no timeline to monitor, no ripple effect to calculate. Just the sound of gravel under our shoes and the occasional duck quacking nearby like it has something to say about fate.

I used to think I needed to know the ending before I started anything. That if I could just see far enough ahead, I could make the perfect choice. Avoid the pain. Prevent the heartbreak. But now? I don't know what comes next. I don't have a roadmap or an algorithm or a secret equation hidden in the margins. There are no backups left. No more resets. Just this. Him. Me. This moment.

I deleted the notes. Every last file. Gone. It hurt more than I thought it would, hitting that delete key, but once I did, I felt lighter. Like I was finally letting go of all the versions of me that never got it right. All the Julies who begged the universe for one more try. They're gone now. I'm the only one left. And for once, that feels okay.

Jamie doesn't ask questions about the machine. He will, eventually. But for now, he just walks beside me, occasionally glancing over like he still can't believe I'm here. I know the feeling. There's still a part of me that expects to wake up in my basement, curled on the floor beside a humming console, alone and unfinished. But that part is shrinking. Fading. With every step forward, the past stops echoing quite so loud.

I don't know where we're going. Maybe to lunch. Maybe to a bookstore. Maybe just as far as this path takes us before we find something worth stopping for. And maybe that's the point. I used to obsess over controlling time. Now I'm learning how to be in it.

There's no pressure here. No countdown. Just the rise and fall of Jamie's breath beside me. The squeeze of his hand when a breeze hits and I instinctively shiver. The way he leans down and says, "Still with me?" like he knows how often I disappear into my head.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I'm here." And I mean it. Every syllable.

I spent years chasing the moment I missed. Trying to rewrite the script. Now, I'm not chasing anything. I'm just walking. Minute by minute. Step by step. Hand in hand with the only person I ever wanted to catch up to. And for the first time in my life, I'm not afraid of what comes next.

We found a bench tucked under a cherry blossom tree near the edge of the park, far enough from the walking paths to feel like we had our own pocket of the world. The air smelled like spring and and freshly cut grass. I kicked off my shoes and tucked my legs under me while Jamie stretched his long frame beside me, arms resting along the back of the bench like he'd been saving this exact spot for us.

"So," he said, tilting his head, "you gonna tell me what you've been up to these last... what, nine years?"

I shrugged. "Nothing much. Solved time and space. Built a lab in a basement. Wrote a few aggressively worded academic papers. Got my doctorate. Almost named a theorem after Schrödy but he's not great with peer review."

He laughed, shaking his head. "I read about your grant from MIT. The one tied to temporal relativity. I saw your name pop up in an article and thought, 'Of course she cracked something unsolvable.'"

I tried not to blush, but failed. "You've been following my work?"

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Of course I have. You think I didn't care what happened to you after high school? You were doing interviews with professors I had to Google just to understand what the headlines meant. I kept every article."

I looked down at my hands. "Then why didn't you reach out?"

There was a pause. Not long. But long enough for his voice to come out quieter.

"Because I knew you stayed behind in Austin for me. You had offers from every school in the country, and you turned them down just to be near me. I knew it. And I didn't say anything because... I was scared. Scared that if I admitted it, I'd be asking you to keep shrinking yourself to stay in my orbit."

"You weren't," I said, not looking at him. "I did that all by myself."

"I know. But I let it happen. I let Amy happen. And I let you go. And that's the biggest mistake I've ever made." He paused, then looked over at me. "Well, that and proposing to Amy. But that's kind of in the same folder."

I smiled, a little sad and a little grateful. "Jamie?"

"Yeah?"

"I still would've stayed. But it would've been nice to know you saw me."

He reached for my hand and laced our fingers together. "I did. I always did. I just didn't think I deserved to keep you."

We sat like that for a long time. No rewinds. No math. Just two people, finally catching up. Almost.

After a long, quiet stretch of park breeze and tangled fingers, I cleared my throat and asked the question I'd been politely not blurting out since we sat down.

"So... what about you? What's Jamie Knight been up to when he's not making highlight reels and grinning at post-game interviews like he doesn't know half the world has a crush on him?"

Jamie gave me a look. The kind that said he could smell the setup a mile away. "Oh, you know. Baseball. Charity stuff. A few endorsement deals that required wearing truly questionable cologne. I bought a house I still don't know how to decorate. And I spent the last few years realizing the person I wanted to tell everything to wasn't around anymore."

Cue stomach flip.

I nodded, pretending to be casual. "Right. Makes sense. Not that I... I mean, I wasn't, like, watching you or anything."

His eyebrow went up, slow and suspicious. "Julie."

"I wasn't stalking. That's a strong word. More like... light, context-based research."

"Context-based?"

"Yeah, like... one Mariners update every now and then. And maybe some archived press conferences. And possibly that podcast interview where you said your favorite movie was still The Iron Giant and I cried in a Trader Joe's parking lot."

He laughed. A full, head-thrown-back laugh that made my face burn hotter than a solar flare.

"And I might've moved to Seattle." I winced. "Well, definitely. I did. Moved here. Kind of near the stadium. Coincidentally."

He turned toward me, eyes warm, no trace of judgment. "So you've been here all this time?"

I nodded. "Not proud. Okay, a little proud. But mostly embarrassed."

He smiled, reached up, and tucked a loose piece of hair behind my ear. "Julie, having you back in my life is one of the best things that's ever happened to me. And if moving to Seattle was your version of waiting for the right moment, I'm just glad you finally walked up and knocked."

I didn't say anything. I just leaned into him, heart loud in my chest, and thought, for the millionth time, that I didn't need a machine to find the right timeline.

I just needed him to smile like that.

CHAPTER -- "The First and Only First Date"

We were ten minutes into our first official date when I spilled an entire glass of water across the table and directly into my lap. Jamie didn't flinch. He handed me his napkin, leaned back like this happened all the time, and said, "Impressive. That might be a record."

I wanted to crawl under the booth and live there forever.

Instead, I apologized seventeen times and tried not to shrivel like a sun-dried tomato under the soft lighting of the Italian place he picked. It was warm, cozy, and quiet. The kind of place meant for gentle glances and candlelit conversation. The kind of place where people get engaged. Which is hilarious, because this was technically our first date and I already felt like I needed a restart button.

I spent the rest of dinner nervously rearranging my silverware and overexplaining every answer. I monologued about Schrödy's dietary preferences, accidentally quoted Einstein in a way that sounded vaguely like flirting, and knocked over the bread basket with my elbow. Jamie, of course, just laughed and kept eating. Like everything I did was endearing and not part of an escalating public meltdown.

"This is going terribly, right?" I asked somewhere between dessert and defeat.

"No," he said, chewing thoughtfully. "It's going exactly how I always imagined it would."

"You imagined me misquoting Schrödinger and attacking the focaccia?"

"Pretty much."

We stepped out into the cool night air. The city was quiet, Seattle fog curling around street lamps like sleepy ghosts. I shoved my hands in my coat pockets and tried to slow my brain down. Jamie reached for my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. And just like that, I stopped overthinking. For maybe ten seconds.

Then he said, "Julie, I need to ask you something."

My stomach dropped. I braced for something terrifying. A breakup before we even began. A confession. A time-space anomaly I had somehow missed. But no, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box. Simple. Classic. Utterly world-ending.

I blinked. "Wait, what?"

He opened it. Inside was a delicate ring, silver and starlight. "I know this is our first date. But we've known each other since we were kids. We've loved each other in every way except the one that counted. I don't want to waste another year, or month, or even one more minute. So I'm asking now. Before we get scared. Before we overthink it."

I stared. Then blinked again. "Jamie, we didn't even get through dessert."

"True. But I'm pretty sure I'm already full."

There was a pause. One of those long, time-stretching silences where every future unfolds at once. Then I dropped my purse, flung myself into his arms, and whispered, "Yes. Yes. You absolute lunatic. Yes."

He laughed against my shoulder, holding me like the world made sense again. Somewhere in the background, the fog swallowed the city whole. Time, for once, didn't move forward or back. It just held still.

And I didn't need a machine to know this moment was perfect.

CHAPTER -- "The Constant in the Equation"

We didn't plan to sleep together that night. It wasn't on a checklist, or a bullet point under "engaged," or a reward for surviving years of unresolved tension. It just... unfolded. Naturally. Gently. Like we had finally stepped into the same timeline and neither of us wanted to blink in case it vanished.

Back at my place, after a long, clumsy, perfect evening, we ended up tangled in my sheets, our laughter slowly giving way to silence and charged looks. There was something reverent about the way he touched my face, like he was memorizing it cell by cell. I couldn't stop trembling. Not from fear. From knowing this was real. Finally real.

"I should tell you something," I said, voice barely above a whisper.

Jamie pulled back, already shirtless, his hand still brushing the line of my collarbone. "Okay."

"I've never... done this before. Like, ever."

His eyes widened slightly. "You're serious?"

"Still technically under warranty," I said. "Emotionally used, but physically... yeah."

He didn't laugh, not at first. He just leaned in and kissed my forehead, his voice low and reassuring. "Okay. Then we take our time."

I might've teared up a little. And then, because I can't help myself, I blurted, "Also, one of my toys is named after you."

That earned a surprised laugh. "Are you serious?"

"I was twenty-one, emotionally repressed, and you were dating someone else. It vibrated at two speeds and had your playoff jawline."

Jamie laughed until he had to catch his breath. "That's the weirdest and most flattering thing I've ever heard."

By the time he undressed fully, I had stopped breathing like a rational person. I looked down, blinked, then looked again. "Oh," I said. "I calculated right."

"Calculated?"

"Just... ratios. You know. Physics."

I didn't even try to recover from it.

The first few minutes were awkward. Too many limbs, one knee-to-rib incident, and a moment where I couldn't figure out how to position my leg without looking like a confused flamingo. But then Jamie kissed my shoulder and murmured, "You're doing great," and something inside me let go. We found a rhythm. Not perfect. Just ours.

Later, I lay on my side, the sheets a tangled mess around us, one of Jamie's arms draped lazily over my waist. My body was sore in places I didn't know could be sore, and I was fairly certain I hadn't done anything remotely acrobatic. Still, my brain chose that exact moment to spiral.

"I don't think I was very good," I muttered into the pillow.

Jamie propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes still half-lidded but warm. "You were perfect. Because it was you."

I sighed. "I really thought I'd be more... graceful."

"You elbowed me in the jaw and still somehow made me see stars. I'll take it."

I laughed, then froze as I felt something hard and very familiar begin to nudge against my hip. I turned my head slowly. Jamie looked down, then up at me, sheepish and grinning.

"Uh," he said, "round two?"

I blinked. "Okay, but just for the record, if this leads to the orgy-version of Julie, I want it noted I was trying to be emotionally healthy."

He laughed into my shoulder, his hands already roaming again. "No machines. No multiverse. Just me and you."

And I let him kiss me again, whispering into the darkness, "Just don't tell Schrödy."

From across the room, I swear the cat sighed.

Somewhere between gasps and kisses and tangled sheets, I realized something profound.

This was the constant in my equation.

Him. Here. Now. Always.

CHAPTER - "The Ceremony Paradox"

There are a hundred things that can go wrong on your wedding day. I catalogued them all between 4:00 and 4:07 a. m., then again between 6:15 and 6:40. My hair won't cooperate. My dress zipper got stuck halfway up. Schrödy threw up on my backup vows. And the best man is still not entirely clear on the difference between "ring bearer" and "actual bear."

Which is all to say, everything is going exactly as it should.

Jamie is somewhere at the venue already. He left with a duffel bag, a calm smile, and the kind of attitude that suggests he was born for this day. I'm pacing around our kitchen in joggers and a satin robe, chewing on the edge of a cold waffle and wondering if cold feet still counts when you're not actually nervous about the marriage, just about people staring at you while you admit you're happy.

The venue is small. Lakeside. Not fancy, but full of little details Jamie and I made ourselves. Handwritten signs. Photos of us through the years, including one where I'm clearly scowling while holding a soldering iron. Schrödy has a designated seat. He refuses to wear the bowtie we bought him. I respect that.

When I arrive, the sky is the color of a soft promise. Everything is warm and buzzing and a little surreal. My dad hugs me too tight. My mom cries when she sees the locket I'm wearing. Inside is a tiny photo of me and Jamie as kids. I almost lose it right there, but Schrödy yowls from the grass like he can sense a moment and wants no part of it. Good boy.

The aisle is short. But it feels like stepping across galaxies.

Jamie waits under a wooden arch wrapped in ivy and science fiction quotes written in tiny script. He's in a navy suit. No tie. Just that stupid, gentle smile that still knocks the air out of me. He reaches for my hands as I step up. His fingers are warm. Steady. Real.

The officiant keeps it short, which I am deeply grateful for. Jamie goes first.

"I've loved you since long before I understood what love meant. You've always been the person I looked for, in every crowd, in every room. You make me better. You make me braver. And even when I didn't know you were still with me, I think I always knew you would find your way back."

I blink fast. It doesn't help.

When it's my turn, I take a breath and speak without notes. Because I don't need them anymore.

"I once built a time machine just to say something I should've said out loud. And I spent a very long time thinking I needed the perfect moment, the right combination of timing and courage, to tell you I loved you. But now I know this is the only moment that matters. You. Me. Right now. No loops. No rewinds. Just us."

Schrödy meows from the second row. I consider that our official seal of approval.

We kiss. It's short. Sweet. Home. When we turn to face the crowd, everyone claps. Jamie's teammates whistle. My thesis advisor sobs loudly into her program. Schrödy curls up under Jamie's chair and falls asleep like he's already bored of married life.

The reception is chaos. Our first dance ends with both of us laughing. Jamie almost drops me during the dip, and I nearly fall out of my dress trying to spin. The cake is lopsided. Someone plays a slow violin version of the Star Trek theme and three people weep for different reasons. It is messy and joyful and nothing like the sleek, filtered version I used to imagine. It is better.

Later, we sneak away barefoot, still half dressed, and sit on the dock behind the venue. The stars come out slowly. Jamie puts his arm around me. I rest my head on his shoulder.

"I'm glad I didn't fix the past," I whisper.

Jamie kisses my temple. "You didn't have to."

We sit like that for a long time. No machines. No variables. No plans. Just one perfect paradox.

The future.

And us, already in it.

Epilogue -- "The Future Is Now"

The late afternoon sun spills through the windows of our little craftsman house, casting golden lines across the hardwood floor and warming the worn edges of the bookcases that Jamie built himself. I'm curled into the corner of the couch, barefoot and half-draped in an oversized hoodie that still smells a little like ballpark dust and pine-scented detergent. Schrödy is a weighted blanket with fur, purring on my lap like this spot belongs to him and always has.

A half-eaten banana rests beside a physics journal I've only half-read, which in turn is nudging up against a bright blue teething ring. The coffee next to it is long cold. I don't mind. This is the kind of stillness I used to chase with equations and circuit boards. And now I find it here, in the quiet rhythm of a house that holds more laughter than regrets.

The TV plays on low volume. Jamie's face is there, post-game, Mariners cap backward and a bit of eye black still smudged on one cheek. Captain now. Still every bit the golden boy, except now he smiles more off-camera than on. ESPN is eating it up. They ask him what keeps him grounded with all the pressure, the headlines, the hype.

Jamie chuckles, rubs the back of his neck in that way he always has when he's answering honestly. "I've got a brilliant wife who keeps me humble. And a cat who thinks I'm an idiot."

I snort and shake my head. "You're not wrong," I mutter, scratching behind Schrödy's ears. He flicks his tail, unimpressed but purring louder anyway.

Then Jamie looks straight into the camera and winks. Not a performance wink. Not smug. Just that stupid, sideways wink--the one he used to throw across the lunch table when we were twelve and words were off-limits but feelings weren't.

I smile down at Schrödy. "He still does that stupid wink."

Schrödy meows, judging me and him equally.

From down the hallway, a baby starts to cry. Not the meltdown kind, just a fuzzy, fussy noise that says nap time is over and the world should pay attention again. I kiss Schrödy on the head and ease him off my lap. He stretches, annoyed, and reclaims the warm spot the second I stand.

I head down the hallway, past the gallery of us framed on the walls. Our wedding day, sunlit and windblown. A picture from the time I guest lectured at MIT and Jamie surprised me with flowers. And at the center of it all, taped into an old frame and still slightly crumpled, that photo booth strip from high school. Half-ripped, half-perfect. One minute frozen in time.

Just before I reach the nursery, Jamie says something on the TV that I don't hear. "She's my reset button. Always has been."

The screen fades to commercial. Schrödy stretches and curls tighter into the shape of a question mark. The house breathes around us, full of love, full of noise, full of what comes next.

The End

+++++++++

Notes from the Wyld:

This story is nowhere near the one I originally set out to write. Back in 2022, I came up with an idea called BATS, a fish-out-of-water tale about a baseball player in Japan dealing with culture shock, mistaken identity, true love, and, for reasons I still can't explain, reincarnation. It was a chaotic potpourri of ideas that didn't exactly smell like roses. I showed the outline to a co-worker, who took one look, walked into my office, and without a word, dropped it straight into the trash. I asked her why, and she shrugged and said, "Because it's garbage. You can do better." Harsh? Absolutely. Was she wrong? Unfortunately, no.

So I took another swing. I went back to my roots and reworked the concept into something far more personal, a time travel story with a broken heart, a busted quantum core, and a girl who's finally ready to stop hiding behind science. Somehow, this version became everything I didn't know it needed to be.

Along the way, I had a number of different timelines planned out, dozens, actually. Wild, sprawling versions with branching paradoxes, butterfly effects, and one storyline where Julie became a billionaire by inventing time-share wormholes. But my wife took one look at my notes and told me I was overthinking it. She said all those detours would muddy the core message and that I should keep it tighter, more grounded, and more emotionally honest. As usual, she was right. So I scrapped the overcomplications and focused on the heart of it, a girl, a boy, and the one moment she couldn't let go of.

Also, yes, I did pick the Seattle Mariners on purpose. I've been a long-time Mariners fan, one of those faithful few who still says, "There's always next year," with a straight face. Writing Jamie as one of their rising stars was a little nod to that part of me that still believes in miracles, on and off the field.

And this is the version that stayed.

Also, I do plan one day to get a cat and I will be naming him "Schrödy".

+++

Quick update for those who've asked: yes, the Melody's Silence sequel is officially in progress. It's getting my full attention before I dive into the follow-ups for Airspace, Once, and The Last Order. And as much as I'd love to start tinkering with that romcom idea I've been kicking around called Crossing Trails, I'm staying disciplined. Mostly. Probably.

Also, big shoutout to a reader (I know him by his first name, so I'm not doxxing him here, but if he wants to introduce himself in the comments, that's up to him) who stepped up as a beta reader and offered some fantastic insight on Act 1. Not only did he catch my overuse of conjunctions to start sentences, because, as he reminded me, the nuns taught him better, but he also gave me the nudge I needed to finally settle on the sequel's title: Melody's Silence: Unwritten Orders. Just wait until he gets his hands on Act 2. I fully expect more notes, maybe a ruler slap or two, and probably another reminder that sentence fragments are not a personality.