Through Time, For You.

Episode Five

I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed three hours later, freshly showered and wearing a plain white tank top and denim shorts. The journal that William gave me sits opposite me on the crumpled sheets. This journal somehow was the only thing keeping me tethered. Because if this isn't a cruel joke from the universe – if Miles Harrington actually died – if everything in the last three months really happened – then reading this might be a way to make sense of it.

Slowly, I bring the journal to my lap. The leather cover is worn, its edges soft from use. I used to think it looked just like any other journal. But now, it stares back at me like it knows something that I don't. His first entry is dated almost three years ago:

“25th June, 2021

I hate birthdays. Always have, but today was bearable than most. Maybe because people started to treat you like you can suddenly run a company after hitting thirty.

William says I should take a break now that I've survived my twenties, but I can't. The company's growing faster than it ever has and investors are breathing down my neck than ever. But still, today felt… okay. Maybe because of the new intern with the coffee addiction and the quiet eyes – June, I think.”

My breath catches. Pressing my hand over my mouth, the journal digs into my thigh, but the pain doesn't register. Not with my heart racing like this. This sounded so different from… him.

The Miles I remember was usually closed off. Not a man who hated birthdays or even noticed quirky interns who always brought him coffee. Or was that how he wanted to be seen?

I jolt at the sound of the doorbell and snap the journal shut – like I had been caught reading something I shouldn't. Which, technically, I was.

“Coming,” I call out, my voice shaky.

Pulling the book under the covers, I go answer the door. Mira is standing there with a warm smile, the smell of Thai food coming from the plastic bags she's holding.

“I brought Thai,” she says, coming inside.

“Why?” I blurt.

Turning, something close to hurt flickers behind her eyes.

“Why?” She repeats. “Because… I don't know." You faint in the office, then proceed to freak out in the hallway.” She sets the plastic bags on the kitchen counter and I don't know what's worse. That she's here… or that I missed her.

“Look,” She says, standing a few feet away. “Something is obviously bothering you, and you might not want to talk about it… but I'm here,”

She doesn't say anything after that. Just pulls out the containers – one for me, one for her and an extra that she puts in the fridge. That's always been Mira. Backup food. Backup plans. I swallow the sob crawling up my throat and open the container. She slides towards me but I just stare at the food while she moves around the small kitchen like she belonged here. Like she never left.

“Do you still like hot sauce?” She nudges my arm. My laugh comes out like a choke, but I nod regardless. And when she leans over to hand me the small container, she pulls me into a hug instead and I freeze.

"Take care of yourself, June. I mean it,”

And just like that, I'm taking back to when we were just two small-town high school girls with big dreams to come to Seattle.

***

It's almost five p.m. when Mira finally leaves with a promise to call. But now, I sit in front of my laptop, hands hovering over the keyboard. Across the screen, the words, “Time travel anxiety” stares back at me. It's been almost thirty minutes and my search history chokes on phrases like:

Time travel

Dead people not really dying?

Nothing made sense. But then again, my current reality didn't either, so I clicked on the search result that read, “how I saw my best friend who was supposed to be dead.” Just then, an email flashes across my screen:

From: Miles Harrington

Subject: Zephyrlink event – attendance confirmed?

Ms. Reed,

Just a reminder that the Zephyrlink event is tomorrow at 8.p.m. Mandatory attendance for core project leaders. Your name is already on the list. The dress code is strictly dinner wear. Let me know if you need transportation arranged. Don't be late.

– M.H

I read it again. It's clipped. Neutral. Just like him, and that somehow, cracks the dam I'd been fighting to keep closed all day. A sob escapes from my lips and soon, the tears follow. But I don't try to stop them – not sure I could. I hug my knees to my chest and keep crying. Not for myself, but for Miles Harrington, whose death wasn't supposed to affect me this much. Who – somehow – was different from the man in that first journal entry.

My phone buzzes on the table but I ignore it at first assuming that it's Mira or Gina, or even work. But it keeps buzzing until I finally pick it up from the table. Two messages from a number that I don't recognize pops up on my screen. Wiping my eyes, I click on it.

Anonymous: Miles Harrington is supposed to be dead.

Don't meddle

I stare at my screen, my breath coming out in short breaths. Someone knew about this timeline. But more than that, said someone wasn't happy that I was in it.