Through Time, For You.

Episode Eleven

William’s eyes meet mine as I step out of Miles’s office, and for half a second, I’m convinced he knows everything. The look isn’t hostile – just steady, calculating, like he’s cataloging every shift in my face. My fingers fumble with the strap of my tote, and I manage something like a smile. He doesn’t return it. Instead, he adjusts his tie and mutters, “Don’t let him eat you alive, June,” before walking past me.

Eat me alive. Too late.

The hallway feels longer than usual as I make my way back to my office. People are filing in now, the chatter of early morning routines building around me, but my pulse still hasn’t slowed. I collapse into my chair, blowing out a shaky breath, when a familiar voice startles me.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I glance up. Gina. Hair half-pulled back, a caramel latte in one hand, phone in the other. She kicks the door shut behind her and plops onto my guest chair like she owns the place.

“I’m fine,” I say, though my voice betrays me.

She eyes me suspiciously. “Fine, my ass. Your cheeks are pale and your lipstick’s smudged.”

“Thanks for the update, doctor.” I quip.

She laughs, but then her expression sobers. “Wait. Did Harrington say something? You were in his office, weren’t you? Oh my God, what did you do?”

The urge to confess burns at the back of my throat, but I shove it down. “Nothing,” I lie. “ Just… work stuff.”

Gina narrows her eyes. “Right. Because people walk out of his office looking like they’ve seen Satan for ‘work stuff.’”

Before I can respond, Troy barrels into my office without knocking. His tie is already loose, his sleeves rolled up, and his grin annoyingly bright for this early.

“Ladies,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat. Then to me: “So… rumor has it you fainted yesterday. True or false?”

I glare at him. “False.”

“Mm, so a strong maybe.”

Gina perks up. “Wait, you fainted?”

“I didn’t faint,” I snap, though the memory of Miles’s voice buzzes at the back of my mind.

Troy smirks, clearly enjoying himself. “Well, if you ever do faint again, I’ll catch you. For a small fee, of course.”

“You’d probably drop me,” I mutter.

“Accurate,” Gina says, sipping her latte.

The bickering, oddly, steadies me and for a moment, I almost forget about the journal in my tote or Miles’s unreadable eyes. Almost.

By noon, I’m knee-deep in emails when Mira appears at my door. She doesn’t knock – just slips in like a shadow, her perfume arriving a split second before she does. Cool, sharp, expensive.

“You’ve been dodging me,” she says simply.

“I’ve been busy,” I reply, keeping my eyes glued to the screen. It was still hard to act normal around her.

She walks closer, heels clicking softly against the floor. “You look awful, Junie.”

“Well today hasn't really been great,” I don't know why I tell her, but I do.

Mira sets her designer bag on the chair and crosses her arms. Her gaze pins me, sharp but strangely tender beneath all the steel. “Talk.”

I finally look up at her. “What do you want me to say?”

Her expression flickers. For a beat, I see my old Mira – the one who used to sneak into my room during sleepovers when we were fifteen, whispering secrets until sunrise.

“You're clearly not telling me something, Junie,” she says, softer now. “Whatever’s going on, I’ve got you.”

My throat tightens, but I don’t answer. The silence stretches until she sighs, grabs her bag, and straightens. “Don’t shut me out, June. Not again.”

And just like that, she’s gone. The rest of the day drags. I keep my head down, drowning myself in reports, until the office finally quiets. Most people have trickled out when Gina pokes her head in again.

“Dinner?” she asks.

“I can’t tonight. Sorry.” She studies me for a moment before nodding. “Alright. Don’t stay too late, okay?”

When she leaves, the silence in my office feels heavy. Too heavy. I push back from my desk, ready to head home, when I notice something odd.

My journal.

I could’ve sworn it was buried deep inside my tote this morning. But now – it’s sitting neatly on my desk, closed, like someone had placed it there deliberately. My stomach drops. I stare at it, frozen, until my phone buzzes. A text.

Unknown number,

Nice flowers for a tired girl.

My blood runs cold. Slowly, I turn toward the corner of my office.

There, on the edge of the window ledge, sits a bouquet of fresh white lilies. Elegant. Beautiful. Wrong. I didn’t order them.

The note tucked inside makes my fingers tremble as I pull it free. Just four words, scrawled in dark ink:

Don’t forget, June.

The air feels too thin, the walls too close. And somewhere deep inside me, I know – this is only the beginning.