Archive of Our Own

In the time you lose consciousness, it’s almost like how it is when you time travel.

While Chloe half-drags your body up the hill to the lighthouse, that particular Max is unaware of what’s happening to her. She will be when you wake up, of course, because you’ll snap right back into the thick of things. That’s why it’s like time travel – you start with your memories, then you lose them for an undetermined period of time, and then you regain them again.

Except it’s only been a half hour and you’ve just had a nightmare that seemed to last for days. So, maybe it’s not like time traveling at all, because when you travel back in time with a photo, you – or at least, a version of you – is blissfully unaware of what has happened. Until you snap back, that is.

But there’s no snapping back, this time. You were always here.

You’re at the lighthouse with Chloe, and you know before she even starts her speech that this will be the last time you two are up here together. She’s crying. You’re crying.

You kiss her, and it really is too bad that you have to let her die.

The butterfly photo takes you right back where it’s supposed to.

You think that you might be fine for a second, because this is what you’ve committed to do. When you hear Nathan barge in the bathroom, you think you’ll be okay, because you made your decision. You even manage to tune Nathan out for a moment.

And then Chloe comes in. The second you hear her voice, your legs shake. You slide down the wall and rest your head in your hands.

Nathan starts yelling.

You want to call out to Chloe. You want to help her, but you don’t. You can’t – you made your decision.

The gun goes off, and Chloe’s dead. Just like that.

Your rewind power still works. It’s there – you can feel it in the itch of your right palm. You want to use it, and you want to cry, but Nathan is still in the bathroom and he still has a gun. You doubt that he’ll use it now, if his crying is any indication, but you have no way of knowing for sure.

You bite down on your hand until you draw blood.

The sound of the shot has David running through the door in record time. He has Nathan handcuffed and on the ground in seconds.

They’re both crying, for different reasons. You’re crying too, but you’re quiet, and David doesn’t hear.

The butterfly photo is below your feet. You pick it up. You don’t allow yourself to look at it for too long, because you’re not even going to give yourself that temptation – instead you crumple it up and shove it in the pocket of your jeans.

Part of you breaks, and you’re surprised to find that there was anything left in you to break at all.

You’re in a police station. At least you think you’re in a police station, because the room that you’re in looks very similar to an interrogation room, and there’s an officer pacing across from you. You don’t remember why you’re there. The policeman reminds you. 

“Why were you in the bathroom?” the policeman demands. It doesn’t sound like it’s the first time he asked you this question, and he was probably kinder the first time around.

You heard Chloe – the same Chloe who you were best friends with, the same Chloe who you left five years ago – get shot. You know this. But why were you in the bathroom?

“I was overwhelmed,” you say, “From class. I answered a question wrong and it was embarrassing. And I was upset because I didn’t turn in my photo for the contest. I needed to be alone.”

It’s true, but you feel like you’re lying. You don’t know why.

The police officer ceases his pacing. He pulls out the chair across from you, and you wince at the noise it makes against the ground.

He sits. “Why were you hiding?” he questions.

You swallow. “I was scared.” Again, it’s the truth. Again, you feel like you’re lying.

The officer’s blank expression wavers somewhat. When he speaks again, it’s a little more gently. “Why didn’t you answer my question in the first place?”

There’s tears in your eyes now. “I was scared,” you say.

You don’t feel like you’re lying at all, this time.

Classes resume the next day.

Any teenager’s death in any school is bound to be a “shock to the whole community,” as one newspaper article put it, but Chloe wasn’t a student at Blackwell. Few people knew her, and fewer people were friends with her. More people were concerned about Nathan being carted off in handcuffs than they were about a dead girl who they had only seen around once or twice.

It was a tragedy, sure, but not a big enough tragedy to cancel school over. And sure enough, everyone’s still there in the morning, milling about the halls before class, whispering quietly and spreading rumors.

The only person you notice that’s missing from the usual faces is David Madsen. You know that David knew Chloe, but you can’t remember what their relation to one another is, or how you even knew that in the first place.

(You makes a resolution to go see Joyce soon. You’re not sure what you have to offer her, but it feels like the right thing to do)

You get into Jefferson’s class early – way earlier than you usually do. Kate is the only person present when you enter the classroom, and for a moment it feels like you’ve lost control of your body. It’s like you’re on autopilot when you make your way over to her.

“Kate,” you say, gripping your own arm. She looks up at you, and there’s something that you’re forgetting, but words are pouring out of your mouth before you even have time to think about them.

You tell her that people care about her. You say something about her sisters – and before you said it, you didn’t even know that she had sisters. Your head feels like it’s splitting into two, like it’s going to collapse under whatever force you’re exerting over it, but you continue on regardless. You tell her that you care, and that you’ll always be there for her if she needs anything.

You feel a lot better once you’re finished with your speech, even though you have no idea where any of it came from. Kate looks a little confused herself, but she hugs you anyway.

People start filing in soon after, and you take that as your cue to head to your own seat. You make plans to have tea with Kate later, and seeing her smile takes a huge weight off your shoulders. You don’t know why the weight was there to begin with, and you know that you’re forgetting something, but you still feel better.

That is, until Mr. Jefferson walks through the door.

You feel a surge of panic and rage all at once. These random emotions are really starting to take a toll on you, and for what is not the first time, you worry about your sanity. You try to shift in your seat, and it feel like you’re strapped to the chair for a moment. However, when you look down, nothing is amiss.

Oblivious to your crisis, Jefferson starts his lecture with the same level of confidence and self-importance as always.

The more he talks, the angrier your get. You clamp down on your tongue, because you’re worried that you might scream at him. Biting your tongue turns out to be unnecessary though, because even if you had tried to scream at him, you wouldn’t have had the time to.

Three police officers come through the door, followed by Principal Wells. The classroom immediately erupts into murmurs, and you’re sure that they’re thinking about Nathan. They’re wrong in their line of thinking – you know, somehow, that the police are not here for any student.

Jefferson doesn’t bat an eye when they handcuff him, but you can see the clench of his jaw when they lead him out. You are not surprised to see him in handcuffs, and you almost forget to question why this is the case.

Principal Wells remains lingering for a moment after the officers have left with Jefferson. He sways on his feet a little. “Class is dismissed,” he says, and then he leaves. 

“What the hell?” you hear someone say. After a moment, the voice registers in your mind – it’s Victoria’s. “What’s going on?” When you look up, she’s glancing around and looking for an answer, but everyone’s just as clueless as she is.

“I wonder what he did,” Courtney says. “Maybe there was some kind of mistake.”

“Rachel Amber,” you whisper to yourself. No one hears you.

There’s something you’re forgetting. 

You’ve been avoiding Warren. After you got released from the police station and made your way back to Blackwell, he had asked you to go to the drive-in with him. You realize that it was an effort to cheer you up; he said so himself. You’re avoiding him partly because you don’t really want to do anything with anyone for a good while, and partly because a frustratingly inexplicable nausea takes over every time he speaks to you.

It’s Wednesday, and you’ve been able to stay away from him since he asked you to go with him on Monday. You feel slightly bad about it all, because you don’t really know why you feel like you do – but nonetheless, whatever the feeling is, it prevents you from being truly guilty about your avoidance.

And unfortunately, you can’t avoid him forever anyway. He catches you on the way out of science, but you don’t tune into what he’s saying until he’s already halfway through his speech.

"The offer’s still on the table, Max. You could use a little fun this week," he's saying, smiling sincerely and a little shyly. He rubs the back of his neck. "And what could be more fun than going ape?"

That phrase has your throat closing up. You can’t answer his question, but you manage to give him an apologetic smile and a half-hearted I’ll text you later before you excuse yourself to the bathroom. You head in that direction, and you can feel his worried and disappointed eyes following you. There’s something you’re forgetting.

You end up vomiting in a toilet. 

You visit Joyce that night. David is wary of your presence, and you’re wary of his. He leaves shortly after you arrive.

There are a lot of words exchanged between you and Joyce, but it’s hard for you to focus on what is being said. She asks you about your life in Seattle, and it feels like something you’ve already discussed before – she talks to you about Chloe, and you feel a crushing guilt when she cries in front of you. You hug her and she tells you that you’re a good kid. You don’t fucking know why, but it makes you feel worse. You feel undeserving.

You learn that the funeral service is on Friday. You promise to be there; Chloe was your best friend, once upon a time. And, even though it doesn’t make sense, you feel like you knew the Chloe that died on Monday. You feel like you loved her.

You’re forgetting something, you think, for what is not the first time. It’s stuck on loop in your head, and you sit on your hands so you don’t rip your hair out–

There’s something that you’re forgetting.

There’s a lot of things that you’re forgetting.

You literally bump into Victoria the next morning when she’s walking out of the bathroom. Your right palm itches, and you rub it over your thigh.

“Watch where you’re going,” Victoria snaps, and you stare back at her. Your lack of response has her hesitating, and you shake your head.

Before Monday, you were afraid of Victoria. But now you understand her somehow.

“You don’t have to be so damn mean, Victoria,” you tell her. “You’re better than that.”

You push past her before she has the chance to respond. The shocked expression painting her face is obvious; you don’t miss it. You would probably be wearing the same expression yourself, but you’re starting to become used to not having any idea of what’s going on.

You can’t focus in class. The funeral is tomorrow, and it looms in your thoughts.

The palm of your hand itches like crazy. You entertain the idea of stabbing your pencil through it for about five seconds, and that’s when you decide that you should probably skip the rest of your classes for the day.

You dream about Chloe. Not the Chloe from your childhood, but the one you saw on Monday, the one lying in a puddle of her own blood. You dream of a kiss, or rather, two - one soft and in a warm bedroom, the other desperate and in the pouring rain.

You wake up with a searing pain in your chest that doesn't go away until mid-morning. By then, you’re already dressed for the funeral.

It feels like there’s a hole in your mind where memories should be. The dreams gave you something, but not nearly enough – it’s like you were starving for days, but were barely aware of it. Now that you’ve gotten a morsel of food, you've only managed to notice how empty your insides really are.

Kate shows up to Chloe’s funeral for your benefit, and you appreciate it immensely. Warren shows up too, presumably also for your benefit, but you have no idea how he even knew to come. You sure as hell didn’t tell him.

Victoria’s there too, but you don’t even begin to guess at that one. You have enough on your mind as it is.

You don’t cry, which would be a miracle if it weren’t for the fact that you’ve probably cried yourself out of tears these last few days.

But you almost start to doubt your inability to cry when Joyce sobs beside you, because two thoughts occur to you at once, in that moment: she doesn’t deserve this and this is your fault.

When the blue butterfly floats down and rests on the coffin, the first thing you feel is relief. But then, your palm itches – and just as quick as the relief came, it’s gone. An intense anger burns in your stomach, your chest, behind your eyes.

A third thought occurs to you, stronger than the rest:

Chloe deserved to live.

You strip off your dress as soon as you get back to your dorm. It’s mostly because you want to distance yourself from the funeral, but you also hate dresses as it is. You change into your most comfortable pair of jeans and flop down on your bed, hoping that your head will eventually quiet down.

It isn’t long before you feel something rub against her upper thigh uncomfortably. Rolling onto your back, you fish around in your pocket until you find the offender – a crumpled mess of what looks to be paper. You sit up and frown, because it looks like a polaroid, actually. You unfold it.

As soon as you catch sight of the picture, you gasp and drop it to the ground. Your palm feels like it’s burning.

You remember. You don’t just snap back into things this time, either – you remember everything about this week, and what came before it. It’s the first time it has happened like this, and you think it must mean something. Or, you want to think that, but mostly you’re just angry.

You had to let Chloe die. Your rewind powers screwed up time, and the universe didn’t like it.

The picture is still on the ground. You clench your fists and your jaw. There are tears in your eyes, because you are fucking furious.

You fucked with destiny. You had to set things right.

Except you dreamed of a tornado before you had even seen Chloe, before you had even discovered your powers.

You thought you had to let Chloe die. But you didn’t.

You pick up the photograph.

You go back.

You’re in the bathroom again. It’s Monday, and you’ve just taken a picture of a blue butterfly. You let the picture fall to the floor, and make a vow never to pick it up again – you have one shot to do this, and that photo cannot help you if you screw up. You’re going to fix this, without time travel, and without any of the means you discovered through time travel.

If the universe doesn’t like it anyway, then it can go ahead and kill you itself.

Nathan comes in and begins his pep-talk to himself, and Chloe enters the bathroom soon after. You’ve heard this conversation a dozen times. You know exactly how it goes. You know exactly what happens, and when.

The second Nathan reaches for the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans, you come out of your hiding spot. You throw yourself at him, literally hurling your entire body into his. You both land on the ground, and you hear the gun slide against the tile. A quick glance at Chloe tells you that she doesn’t go for it – she’s mostly just standing there, looking too shocked to move.

Nathan might be saying something, but you don’t hear it; you’re too busy yelling for someone to help. Nathan tries to get you off of him, and he struggles for a few seconds before landing a right hook against your jaw. You cry out.

He scrambles up and away from you once you land on your back, and whether he’s headed toward his gun or toward the door, you’ll never know; David heard you, and he’s here, and now Nathan is being subdued.

David doesn’t really know what’s going on, and he barks at you to stay where you are. You aren’t planning on going anywhere, though – you just remain laying on the ground. Your entire body is shaking.  Chloe is standing over you now, a look of awe etched on her face.

“Max?” she questions. You’re reminded of that first Monday, when she almost ran you over with her car before recognizing you.

You work past the lump in your throat. “Chloe,” you greet. You try to smile, but you jar hurts too much.

Chloe bends down to help you up before throwing her arms around you. David orders her to stop, and she shoots an angry glare his way. “Can’t you see she just saved my life?” Chloe says. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

You know that even though you currently remember everything that happened, that will soon not be the case. You will be unaware until you snap back into the timeline at some future point in time. The time between your points of awareness will seem like nothing to you, but you know from experience that it can be hours, days, or apparently even a week during the time that you forget everything surrounding your time traveling. You stand there, letting Chloe hug you, and you close your eyes.

You wait to find yourself in a completely new situation. You pray that you didn't mess things up too bad, and that you won't skip too far ahead. 

But you never snap back into the timeline, because you never leave it. Officers take you away for questioning. You’re released, eventually, and you take the bus back to Blackwell.

And the whole time, you don’t forget. You don’t lose awareness.

You shower that night, and you feel new.

When you wake up the next morning - the very next, chronologically-sound Tuesday morning - you remember everything that happened. Or rather, you realize that you never forgot.

You want to jump with joy, but you need to test the feeling in your gut first. You cautiously lift your right hand into the air in front of you. And, to your complete and utter relief, exactly what you’re expecting to happen, happens: nothing at all. Your power doesn’t work. You can’t rewind. 

You break down sobbing. 

You cry for nearly an hour without pause, and it isn’t until Kate gently raps on your door and asks if you’re alright that you’re able to calm down somewhat.

You open the door to let Kate in. She looks worried, and she isn’t the only one – you can see Alyssa’s concerned face as she quickly walks past. You realize that you were probably being a little loud.

Kate makes you sit next to her on your couch and tries to get you to talk, but you just end up telling her that yesterday took a toll on you. It’s not exactly untrue, but you don’t think that you’ll ever be able to tell Kate the full story.

Once you’ve convinced Kate that you’re going to be okay, truly – a feat that only occurs once you’ve gone a full ten minutes without crying – she murmurs something about a dream she had last night.

You ask her if she wants to talk about it, and she shakes her head. “It was really weird,” Kate says. “I don’t think I can explain it very well, but–” she cuts herself off. “I’m very glad to be here.”

Throughout the conversation, she’s been twirling her cross between her fingers, but now she lets it fall back down to her chest. Suddenly, she jerks sideways, giving you a one-armed hug. She’s a bit too short for it.

“Thank you,” she says, which catches you even more off guard than the hug itself did.

“For what?” you ask, your throat tight.

Kate leans away from you. She’s smiling, and her nose crinkles. “I’m not sure, exactly,” she says softly. “But thank you for being there, Max. Thank you for being you.”

You have no clue what to say to that, and your wrack your brain for an appropriate response. Part of you wants to question her, because she clearly knows something – but you hear your phone vibrating from the table by your bed before you can say anything.

Kate takes this as her cue to leave. “I’ll talk to you later, Max,” she says, slipping out the door.

“Yeah,” you say, puzzled. You suppose that you’ll just have to figure out what was going on with that later.

You walk over to your phone and grab it, intending to call back whoever was trying to reach you – but then you realize that no one was calling you, just texting you over and over.

They’re all from Chloe. Your hands start to shake.

You open up her messages and skim through them all. She’s not in danger, which should come as a relief, but you can’t feel anything other than your heart, which is thumping wildly in your chest.

The newest text says this:

i’m leaving now. i’ll be at Blackwell in 10

The oldest one says this:

i remember everything

You rush toward you closet, pulling out the first pair of jeans and t-shirt you see.

There are very few people in the hallway, and those who are around seem to be in some kind of a daze. You want to rush past them, but you remind yourself that you don’t need to hurry – it’ll be at least another seven minutes before Chloe makes it to the school.

Brooke’s in the hallway, and she nods at you. You ask her if she’s alright. She nods again.

Victoria is standing in the middle of the hallway, staring at a missing poster on the bulletin board. You swallow, because you really don’t want to approach her, but you feel like you should.

She doesn’t react to your presence beside her, so you tentatively touch her arm. She startles and turns toward you.

“Max," Victoria says. She opens and closes her mouth, then opens it again. Then she shakes her head and closes her mouth once more - forcefully, this time.

She clears her throat before saying, without warning, “I’m sorry for snapping at you the other day.”

You frown, because you’re not sure what instance she’s referring to. “When?” you ask, because she’s been mean to you more times than not.

Victoria gestures vaguely. She looks impatient with herself. “The other day,” she sighs. You don’t respond, and her entire body seems to slump forward. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just sorry.”

You aren’t quite sure what to say to that, because it’s okay isn’t quite accurate. You touch her arm again. “Thank you,” you settle on.

She nods. Then turns away from you, back to the bulletin board. You leave her there.

You see Chloe in the parking lot before she sees you. You call out to her, and your voice cracks on her name.

Chloe runs over and sweeps you into her arms. You were crying before she even reached you.

She’s laughing. You think that she might be crying, too.

“God, Max,” she says. “God.”

“How do you know?” you ask, breathless.

Chloe shakes her head, and you feel it more than you see it. “I don’t know – I woke up this morning and I just do. Maybe it was because I was with you for most of the bullshit, or something.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, gripping the material of her jacket. You don’t really care how Chloe remembers what happened in the week from hell – which is actually still technically ongoing, since it’s only Tuesday again.

Chloe echoes your thoughts. “Whatever,” she says. “Who cares? I’m here.” She sways, and you sway with her. “We’re here. I can’t fucking believe it.”

You two just stand there for a moment, swaying back and forth.

Eventually you stop your movements, pulling back from Chloe slightly. You look up at her, and she seems to know what you want, or maybe she just wanted it too – because she leans down to kiss you. It’s got a bit of the desperation and fervor that the last one did, but there’s more to it than that. There’s something like safety in it. Something like relief.

When you pull away from each other, Chloe’s eyes trail down to your jaw.

“That is one mean bruise, Max,” she says, trailing her fingers over the skin in question.

It is, and it kind of hurt while you were kissing Chloe, but you shrug. “I’ve been through worse.”

Chloe narrows her eyes at that. She leans down and presses a soft kiss to the bruise, just light enough to be felt. “I wish that wasn’t true,” she says, against your skin.

You can’t help but agree.

The two of you eventually end up making it upstairs to your room. You both sit on your couch, leaning against one another.

You have classes today, but there’s no way you’re going. Mr. Jefferson is going to be arrested today anyway, so at least you won’t miss much in photography.

“My mom hugged me for two minutes straight this morning,” Chloe is saying. “I think she knows that something happened, somehow. I think it’s about more than what happened in the bathroom yesterday.”

You shift on the couch. “I think that everyone’s remembered some of things that happened,” you say. “At least, in a sense, on some level. I don’t really think they understand what they know, but something’s changed. With everyone.”

Chloe rubs her face – you know that she’s never really understood the time stuff. She gets it even less than you do. “What do you think it means?” she asks.

“I think it means that it’s over,” you admit. “My rewind’s gone and I didn’t dream about the storm. I think we’re done. I think–” You swallow.  “I think we made it.”

“Damn,” Chloe breathes. She shudders. “I could’ve swore the universe wanted me dead.”

“The universe doesn’t want you dead, Chloe,” you say, and you’re absolutely certain of it. “The universe doesn’t want anything. It doesn’t give a shit about us.”

Chloe’s eyes are bright, but you’re not looking at her. “No offense, Caulfield,” she says, “But you’re not doing a great job at this whole reassurance thing.”

You don’t respond, but you look up at Chloe when she nudges you with her elbow. She smiles, wide and sincere, and you throw your arms around her. She leans down and hugs you back, and it very well may be the best feeling in the world.

The universe may actually give a shit about you, and it may actually give a shit about Chloe. After all, you’re both here, and you’re both alive.

But maybe it’s not the universe – maybe it’s just you two.

Maybe that’s how it’s always been.