I don't go home that night.
I can't.
The apartment feels wrong now—too full of things that expect me to feel something. Photos. Notes. Shoes by the door that belong to someone I'm supposed to miss more than I do.
So I walk.
The city hums around me, indifferent. Cars pass. Lights change. Time moves like nothing broke today.
I stop at a convenience store.
Not the one where I work.
Another one. Smaller. Quieter.
I buy a notebook and a pen.
The cashier smiles. "Have a good night."
I nod. "You too."
Outside, I sit on the curb under a flickering streetlight and open the notebook.
Blank pages.
Good.
I write at the top of the first page:
THINGS I WILL NOT LET TIME TAKE
I stare at the words for a long time.
Then I write the first entry.
1. The reason I fight.
My hand pauses.
I don't write her name.
I can't trust that.
Names disappear.
Faces fade.
So I describe it instead.
She's smaller than me. Talks too much. Laughs when she's nervous. Hates vegetables. Believes I can do anything.
The pen shakes.
I keep going.
She is the proof that I was human.
My chest tightens.
That feeling—sharp, sudden—that's new.
Good.
I flip the page.
2. What I am becoming.
I can rewind time.Every use costs memories.The cost is not fair. It is not logical. It is personal.
I write until my hand cramps.
Rules. Warnings. Reminders.
Things I don't trust my mind to keep anymore.
When I finally stop, my head hurts—but in a clean way. Like I exercised a muscle instead of tearing it.
I look up.
Luna stands across the street.
Of course she does.
She walks over slowly, hands in her coat pockets.
"That's smart," she says, glancing at the notebook.
"It's desperate," I reply.
She tilts her head. "Those are often the same thing."
I close the notebook. "I'm anchoring myself."
She nods. "I can feel it."
I frown. "Feel what?"
She gestures vaguely around my head. "Resistance. Like time doesn't slide off you as easily when you write."
"That good or bad?"
A faint smile. "Annoying. For the system."
I take that as a win.
"I won't forget everything," I say. Not a question.
"No," she agrees. "You'll forget who those things were attached to."
I look down at the notebook.
"Then I'll remember why instead."
She studies me for a long moment.
"You're adapting faster than expected," she admits.
"That scares you?"
"Yes."
"Good."
She exhales, something like relief slipping through despite herself.
"There's something else," she says.
I wait.
"The convergence today," she continues. "It wasn't random."
"I figured."
She meets my eyes. "They're testing you."
"Who is 'they'?" I ask.
She doesn't dodge this time.
"The curse's stewards. The ones who decide which bloodlines are erased… and which are used."
My stomach twists. "Used for what?"
"To stabilize broken timelines," she says. "Living reset buttons."
I laugh quietly. "So I'm not just a mistake. I'm a tool."
"Not yet," she says. "That future version of you? He is."
I close the notebook and stand.
"Then I won't become him."
She searches my face.
"And if the only way to save your family is to become that?"
I don't answer right away.
I think of the girl in the infirmary.Of the word sister that won't stick.Of promises that still hurt even when love fades.
"Then I'll choose who I save," I say finally.
Luna's eyes widen slightly.
"That's dangerous," she whispers.
"I know."
I hesitate.
Then I hold the notebook out to her.
"Read it," I say. "If I ever stop caring—if I start lying too easily—remind me what I wrote."
She doesn't take it.
Instead, she covers my hand with hers.
"I won't need to," she says softly. "If that happens… I'll end you."
I meet her gaze.
"Fair."
She releases my hand.
Turns.
Walks away.
I sit back down under the streetlight and open the notebook again.
On the last line of the page, I write one more thing.
3. If I forget everything else—I will remember that I chose to fight.
The streetlight flickers.
Time moves forward.
And for once—
It doesn't feel like I'm losing the race.