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She doesn’t intentionally seek the memories out, doesn’t chase the heart-killer of nostalgia, the wretched thing hiding rot behind a shiny facade. But neither does she spend any effort to avoid the trappings of the past. When the moments come, when deja vu greets her, Mia only ever lets it wash over her. Peacefully. Hauntingly. After this many lives, it is the easiest lesson to heed.
Sometimes the memories come with a smile, a soft exhale that flows into a snicker. The first time she watches you on stage, pouring your heart out as Romeo, she can’t help but remember having to help you cram for your Language Arts final. Recalls the way your lips pouted after a particularly exasperated sigh; she can trace the mental image of the way those lips curled back into a smile at one of her dumb jokes. It’s the joke itself she can’t remember. A jab at Shakespeare, probably, the man an easy choice of target.
There’s a moment (it repeats, by God it repeats, a dozen times over the loops, every instance layered on top of the last) where she sits next to you on a couch meant for three. Instinct makes her legs twitch, yearning to prop her feet up on your lap, not letting anybody sit between you. Instead, she suppresses a smile, and watches as one of your roommates all but sits on top of you. It doesn’t matter which one; in Mia’s eyes, they’re both better than Miranda, if only in this moment, for this purpose.
Other memories make her breath hitch in her throat, words stuck to the sides of her mouth like cotton, another stone to sink in her stomach. These are the ones that blend together the most, twisting further with every loop, muddling her perception of which life she’s in. Most come by accident, echoing the way she’s met you before. A bump in the hallway, papers scattering, both crouching down to pick everything up. Sudden rainfall making you scramble to share an umbrella, going back and forth between who gets most of the cover. Teaming up to take down the reigning asshole at whatever drinking game the campus is currently obsessed with.
“You look familiar- have we met before?” You’ll ask, once in a blue moon of a loop, except this time it’s more than reuniting with a childhood friend. This time it’s reaching out to pluck the heartstrings of your soulmate. One of your soulmates, that is. Mia’s response only ever comes with unearned confidence, mirth dancing on her tongue, deflecting, deflecting, denying- a hint of flirting, maybe, when she can afford it. Getting you to blush had been a favorite pastime of hers, once, twice, many times. Even if it never extended into anything more official than sharing a bed.
Seeing you at parties makes her feel like so little has changed. Always the same drink of choice, always too readily egged on by friends. If she squinted, it would be easy to put herself in Daniela’s place at your side, and so Mia never lets her gaze linger for too long. When the cups get too deep for you, it’s far too easy to stop herself from intervening. She never did before. Even when she should have. Those are the timelines where Angie does more for you than Mia’s past self could ever dream of.
It almost makes up for the time she finds your body crumpled in front of the doll’s car, crimson splashed across the bumper. She stares, only for a moment, wondering when she stopped feeling anything at the sight of your corpse. Then she catches a glimpse of three familiar fanatics in the crowd, makes note of the way their horror differs from those around them. Figures their attempts at keeping you out of the spotlight would go too far, eventually. Figures that the real nostalgia greets her fingers as they wrap around the handle of her knife. Revenge was an old friend- just one rarely visited these days.
Hard for her to thrive on revenge when she’s got the bloodiest hands of them all. Strange how the feelings shifted over time, guilt warping into freeing comfort. The first time she killed you, the first time she brought on a new loop across a knife’s edge, she almost threw up. Stared at the deep cuts and lost herself in the memory of finding Miranda cradling your lifeless body, the end of your past incarnation. It made her stomach churn, made her heart drop, and fully solidified her need to make sure the loop would meet a perfect end (the only way to guarantee you’d never meet that fate again).
By now, the blood flows freely, remorse a trinket left forgotten on dusty shelves. It’s for the best. Better her than someone else, better for her to soak your bond in blood than to let it rot in the open. Ending the loop fills her with relief, with joy, as she invokes her promise to give you not just a happy ending, but the right one. She loses track of how many times she’s knocked you down or out, how many loops she’s filled with blood, how many times she’s allowed you the comfort of bleeding out in her arms.
Ironic, then, that you never accuse her of murdering you, only someone far less important. More ironic yet that the finger of blame forces her to recall the life that bound your souls together. But that memory doesn’t perfectly layer over the present, when she’s not burning by your side, dying with your name on her lips. The way you look at her almost makes her miss the flames (the next moment she focuses on has your hands touch in passing, knuckles brushing up against each other, and she feels an entirely different kind of fire).
There are times where she wonders how much you remember. Not consciously, not truly, but which memories are etched into your soul itself. Now those are the moments that test her resolve, that tempt her to chain herself to pursuing the past the same way that Miranda does. All it takes to make her heart stop is for you to tilt your head to the side, eyes not quite narrowed, a sly smile paired with a twinkle in your eye. Something about that expression always lets her know you’re on the verge of remembering something. Half of the time you’ll follow it up with a carefully worded question, never sure if Mia feels the same deja vu that you do.
Your timing isn’t always perfect; she can’t blame you, not with the way her memories layer over each other, fighting to see which controls her present.
One hand in her pocket, clutching her switchblade, the other placed gently on your shoulder. Now that the election is over (again. how many times have you won? why do you never walk away, even when Bela begs you?), she needs to remove you. But your eyes light up as soon as she touches you. Head tilt? Check. Sly smile? Check. You should be scared by the way she’s looking at you, by the way she has you cornered on the balcony, but somehow your mind has skipped past the familiar danger and right into the familiar flirting. Aren’t you supposed to be in love with Bela this time around?
“Care to dance?” You ask, offering your hand. How long has it been since the two of you danced?... Not since Miranda refused to go with you, a lifetime or two or five ago, long before the loop. Mia had been the one to ask you then. Her expression now must mirror what yours had been that day. Surprise, amusement, and adoration. Of course she agrees.
By the time Bela interrupts, the way she does in too many loops, Mia is grateful. It had been hard enough to avoid kissing you in that past life, it was almost impossible now. Still, the Dimitrescu stands frozen for a moment, her own layered memories not finding any match for the sight. She’s supposed to be tackling Mia, knocking her off the balcony, body breaking in the bushes below. Neither of them move, trying to calculate a route to familiar endings.
Mia misjudges her decision, ruins the feelings, guarantees that you’ll harbor a hesitance to dance with her for all loops and lives to follow. She holds your hand, she holds her knife. She holds your hand, she takes your life. For once, Bela is the one who’s two steps behind, her shove coming too late, even if it still carries Mia off of the ledge.
Death never takes either of you for terribly long. Miranda pulls back the fog of limbo, breaks the rules, makes the void spit you both back out, resetting the loop. One wakes up with memories of everything, the other with only impressions. Lingering pieces of nineteen strange dreams, and a hundred futures cycling over one another with interlocking grooves, the only set pattern being love and love and wretched, bloody love. Mia doesn’t chase the nostalgia, doesn’t seek out the ways she knows will lead to love, to the familiar warmth of your heart next to hers. Why would she? All roads lead back to you.