At first, it was just a shadow. A flicker in her peripheral vision. A blur of someone turning the same corner she did a second too late.
But then it was everywhere.
Y/N started noticing him more and more—at the café two blocks from her apartment, leaning against a lamppost outside the bookstore, a few paces behind her on the walk home.
She never caught his face. Just dyed hair (sometimes green, sometimes blue depending on the light), a battered hoodie, and hands jammed into his pockets like he didn't know what else to do with them.
It didn't feel threatening. Just... off. Too constant. Too familiar for someone she'd never met.
The night it got real, it was raining. The kind of bone-deep cold that seeps through your clothes no matter how many layers you wear.
She was the last one in the café. Her laptop had died, her phone was on 2%, and the barista was politely pretending not to nudge her out with every movement.
She stepped outside into the storm, pulling her hood up.
And there he was again. Across the street. Leaning against a flickering neon sign.
This time, he looked straight at her.
Her feet moved before her brain could. She darted down the block, heart punching against her ribs.
She didn't look back.
⸻
She didn't sleep that night. Instead, she stared at the ceiling, replaying every sighting like static on a loop.
Why her?
She wasn't famous. Wasn't important. She was just a writer, barely employed, living off caffeine and Spotify playlists and half-finished thoughts.
So why him?
⸻
The next day, she went back to the café, like nothing had happened.
Except this time, when she ordered, the barista hesitated.
"Hey, the guy from yesterday left this for you."
He handed her a napkin. Folded once, soaked at the edges.
She opened it.
"Don't freak out. I'm trying to keep you safe. You're not supposed to remember me, but I think you do.
– M"
She stared at the paper, fingers trembling.
Her name wasn't on it. But she knew it was for her.
She folded it carefully, tucked it into her coat, and walked out the back instead of the front.
⸻
That night, she waited.
On the rooftop of her building, wrapped in a blanket, steam rising from a chipped mug between her palms.
And like she somehow knew he would, he appeared.
Michael.
He looked different up close—tired, eyes rimmed in red, like he hadn't slept in days. The color in his hair had faded to something more human.
He didn't speak at first. Just stood across from her, dripping from the rain, watching her like she might vanish.
"You were following me," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah," he replied. Voice low. Rough.
"Why?"
"I'm not from here." He took a step closer. "Not from now, I mean."
She blinked.
"Okay," she said slowly, "either you're crazy, or I'm dreaming."
"Maybe both," he said, cracking a crooked smile. "But I wasn't supposed to find you again. The universe—whatever version of it runs things—doesn't like repeats."
Y/N's throat tightened. "Find me again?"
He nodded. "In another version, we knew each other. You wrote stories about time—about things happening wrong. And you figured out how to fold time backward. But you paid for it."
Her pulse thundered. "What happened?"
"You erased yourself. To fix what broke. I remembered. You weren't supposed to."
"Why do you?"
"Because I loved you," he said simply. "And that doesn't fade just because someone said so."
The silence stretched between them.
Then she whispered, "Why come back now?"
He took another step toward her. The distance closing.
"Because it's starting again," he said. "The glitch. You're seeing echoes—snippets of memories that aren't this version of you. And I'm the only one who can stop it from swallowing you again."
She wanted to laugh, to scream, to cry. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the napkin.
"You left this."
"I hoped it would jog something."
She looked at him. Really looked. Past the exhaustion, the chaos, the impossible story.
And she remembered something. Not a moment—but a feeling.
The weight of his hand in hers. Laughter under a blanket fort. The sound of his voice saying her name like it mattered.
"Michael," she said.
His eyes went wide.
She remembered.
⸻
The world didn't split open that night. It didn't shatter or rewind.
But something shifted.
Because this time, she didn't run.
She reached for his hand.
And the moment her fingers touched his—
The stars above them blinked twice.
The streetlight flickered.
The rain stopped.
And somewhere far away, the universe took a breath.
