Through Time, For You.

Episode Eight

It was impossible to sleep after what I had discovered. But when sleep finally claimed me, I dream of black suits and secrets – of brown journals and hazel eyes.

“You look terrible,” Troy said, not even trying to soften the blow. I had not seen much of him since I fainted in this hallway. It felt like ages ago since then, funny how time slipped by.

“Good morning Troy,” I greet, a small smile on my face.

“Did you even leave your bed this weekend?” I notice he has a fresh cut, his brown skin glowing in the sun. “You also ignored all the invites Gina and I sent. Do you want to remain single, girl?” There's a note of accusation in his voice and I instantly feel terrible. Somewhere between reading Miles’ journal and tracking his every movement, I forgot that I also existed.

“I'm so sorry,” I apologize, batting my lashes at him. “I just needed this weekend to… regroup.” It wasn't a lie.

“Well, I hope you did because we're going out tonight,” his tone, leaves no room for debate.

“Definitely,” I acquiesce, feeling lighter than I had in a while. I could allow myself this.

“Look,” he turns to me, tone suddenly serious. “There's something obviously going on with you and you might not want to tell me what it is now but, even if it's just for tomorrow night, allow yourself to be. Okay?” There's something on his face that makes me want to just break down and let everything out, but I nod instead. Seeming satisfied, he walks ahead of me, humming something upbeat under his breath and I trail behind. My mind still locked on what I had read in that cursed journal. I could feel the weight of it wrapped around my shoulder – smothering me. Stopping at Mr. Harrington's door, I wave at Troy before adjusting the coffee cup filled with plain black coffee – just how he liked it – around my fingers.

I knock.

There's a pause before a curt “yes” follows.

I mentally count to three before walking in, my heart in my mouth. Mr. Harrington is behind his desk, facing slightly towards his floor-to-ceiling glass window. His eyes briefly flicker to me before landing back to the folder he's holding. I notice the half filled coffee already on his desk. I grip the cup I'm holding tighter.

“You're late,” he says, his voice devoid of emotion, a huge contrast to when he tended to my wound.

“I'm sorry. The rain was terrible this morning,” I'm surprised by the calmness in my voice. He doesn't look up as silence follows. He turns a page of something beside him and my heart stutters. A brown journal. But I shake it off. It was probably just a regular notebook.

“Why're you still here?” He asks, sparing me another glance. The question wasn't supposed to hurt but it does regardless. Soon after, a hint of anger flares and I welcome it. Anger was good.

“I wanted to check on you,” I can't stop the anger from creeping into my voice but his head snaps up so I continue, “That night was a mess and–”

“And who are you to do that?” He whispers but somehow it carries across the room, his nostrils flaring. “That night was an anomaly. Let's just forget about it,”

“I–”

“You're just my assistant!” He shouts. There's a flick of emotion behind his eyes but it's gone before I can place it. Humiliation and anger battle for dominance as I blink hard.

“No.” I say, suddenly feeling bolder, “You do this when you feel seen… What is wrong with you?” I realize a moment too late who I'm talking to and snap my mouth shut. But instead of feeling apologetic, my breath remains level and my knees don't give out. I glare at him – unflinching.

“Get out,” It's barely a whisper but I hear it regardless. “Leave this instant!” His voice is deadly, “And the next time you come, leave the coffee and go.”

My heart hammers painfully in my chest but I leave the coffee I had brought before turning. When I slip out of his office, my cheeks are hot and my hands are shaking. The only evidence of my fear. Opening my eyes, I notice Gina, her wide eyes betraying her.

“Coffee?” She offers.

“I'm fine,” I decline, “Just need a moment.”

She nods before leaving and I feel a pang of guilt but immediately shove it down. My emotions were already all over the place. My legs are at least steady when I stalk towards my desk. I flop down and stare at my laptop before my gaze lands on my bag – specifically the brown leather book poking out. Sighing, I pull it out, already feeling a bone deep exhaustion. I was hesitant about reading his journal since that last haunting entry but after that encounter in his office, I needed more information. I turn left and right. The office was busy and nobody seemed to be paying me any attention. Slowly, I flip to a random page. The words here are less eager. Neat, lazy strokes adorning the page. Then, just as my eyes settle on one line – the ink begins to fade.

“What the –?”

I blink, soft tremors slowly making it through my bones. And then I notice. The words don't just vanish, they… shift. Letters rearrange themselves like a typewriter possessed by a ghost. I focus on that one line and it's not the same line that stares back at me anymore.

Dread shoots up my veins like ice.

I skim the pages again, this time faster but it's no use. The words are… rewriting themselves. Whole paragraphs rearranging themselves. Words I swear weren't there seconds ago replace familiar ones. One line stands out. Angry strokes from words that stare back at me, seizing the air from my lungs.

She shouldn't be here

I pause. Because I notice – my heart racing – that the ink had barely dried. Like it was written just a few seconds ago. I slam the journal shut, nearly dropping it.