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Claire saw the brunette woman on campus sometimes.
A somewhat younger student, but immensely intelligent, it seemed—likely in the law program between the sophisticated dresses she wore and the various tomes carried under her arms.
So very serious—had that sort of tunnel-visioned, ruthless glint in her eye that could part crowds and topple walls if her goals demanded it.
And yet, there was something radiant about her, too—the silky hair and flawless complexion, sure, but even something beyond that.
Claire often wondered: what would they talk about, if they ever came face to face?
Commiseration about the diametric challenges and allures of academia, undoubtedly. Balancing newfound freedoms with heightened responsibilities and unfamiliar heartaches… Trudging to class in every sort of weather and spending innumerable nights studying on coffee and adrenaline alone, and yet knowing that stress left them better off than trying to build a future some other way… Most students could relate on this level, even ones as well put-together as her.
The quest for knowledge and purpose, more broadly. She saw it in the brunette’s stride, in much the same way others saw it in her own. Ambition to fight on the side of justice; to push the boundaries of what humankind knew to be possible; to find the answers she sought and uncover the truth no matter the cost. Though the nuances of their fields could be lost on the other, physicists and attorneys-to-be weren’t so different in that regard.
Family matters, maybe. A sibling or parent left behind. The brunette had a certain rigidness to her posture which, to the undiscerning eye, would serve only to intimidate, but to those more perceptive almost betrayed an internal conflict about the life she’d lived before.
Claire could understand it: the reluctance to leave and yet the eagerness to move on; a sort of selfish altruism in the path she chose; aversion and love all tied up in a confusing little bow.
Yes, they’d have so much to talk about, Claire knew in her heart.
But it was a moot point, anyways. They would not meet face to face, not so long as any opportunity to reach out somehow left the words caught in Claire’s throat.
So she’d remain content to see the brunette woman on campus sometimes, and try her best to keep the wishes of what could be from spilling out onto her face.
--
In time, Claire would graduate from the school and inch closer to her own dreams, growing too preoccupied with her research to ponder the missed connection with any regularity. Be as it may that Claire had never even learned the woman’s name, though, the gravitas the future attorney carried with her would never be completely forgotten.
Not when the team of scientists overcame the first massive hurdle toward revolutionizing the world’s understanding of space-time, and the grant money and publicity alike poured in at an almost frightening pace.
Not when the lovely gentleman she’d been seeing nervously asked her to move in with him, and she realized for the first time in all seriousness that this could be the start of a life lived in tandem.
Not when the letter in the mail broke the news of her father’s ailment, but the growing demands of the laboratory would never allow her to return home in time to say goodbye.
In these moments, Claire remembered the brunette—pondered what she would do to carry on with such a life. Someone so headstrong would surely have an answer for every challenge she faced, or some way to make it all feel better.
A few particularly taxing nights would even see dreams of a different world where the gap had been bridged, and the brunette would meet Claire at the pair’s favorite cafe; hold her hand in sympathy as Claire recounted her woes; offer sound advice through a perfect, supportive smile.
And then Claire would return to reality and accomplish great things on her own, and a friendship that never was would remain a simple thought exercise for another day and another struggle.
--
Her partner had just reached the final round of interviews for a tenured position teaching at the university where he had studied.
They were coming up on five years together, and she believed they might be prepared to take that final leap of commitment any day now.
The trial data at the lab indicated that she and her team were on the precipice of accomplishing a goal years in the making for them, and in decades of dreaming from those before them—they were on track to creating the world’s first operational time machine.
Everything could not be more right in Claire’s life. And yet, something was terribly wrong.
She couldn’t put her finger on it. The feeling just seemed to follow her wherever she went: in “good day” kisses at her doorway, quiet afternoons of organizing data sheets, routine weekend trips to the grocer, it was this lingering sensation of… dread. It often compelled her to check over her shoulder for impending danger, but none ever presented itself.
Was there anyone who would even take her seriously if she tried to explain it? Anyone who wouldn’t kind of just laugh it off as her being anxious or understimulated—wouldn’t tell her to fret less, sleep more, trust in the process and her abilities?
(She thought of one person who might… but it was never a realistic option.)
So she simply bit her tongue on the matter. When Bill and Dimitri came into the lab with the news that they were ready to begin human trials on the time machine, Claire smiled along, trying her hardest to push that dread out of her mind.
And as the reports she ran each day gradually stopped corroborating the promises the team presented to the department heads, the dread fought back just as hard, like a hand on her wrist, with the manicured nails digging in ever so slightly as they dragged her away.
“It’s too risky,” she imagined the attorney would say. “I know the person you are inside, but some truths you have to let rest.”
“But if I don’t find out where this path leads, who will?” Claire would argue back.
“You still can. Once you know exactly what you’re getting into,” the attorney would assure her. “Right now, you have to think of what you stand to lose, too.”
“What I stand to lose,” Claire would respond, swallowing hard, “is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to change the world.”
All the attorney would offer here was a wordless, somber gaze.
And although the sensation of the brunette’s saddened eyes on her sent ghost-like chills down Claire’s spine, still the next day, she returned to the lab.
--
Her skin itched, as if ants were crawling all over her, no matter how many times she raked her fingers down her body to make them stop.
Each sound she heard carried a hazy undertone, like she was trying to process it through a tank of water.
The sights before her eyes sometimes shifted and burned away to peer into a different version of her reality.
Claire was dead; she felt she had to be.
Previously, she had never considered this was a self-state of which dead people could be aware. But how else was she meant to explain her ostensible ensnarement in the threads of space-time?
When she wasn’t being helplessly slung to and from the same two moments ten years apart, she felt her essence floating through an incomprehensible betweenness, fragmenting as her body prepared for the next jump, the next loop.
Yes, it seemed that, if only for an instant in her life, Claire Foley had perfected the art of time travel. And only now—now that she had no course to change her fate—could she understand how dearly it had cost her.
But yet once, as if space-time itself had paused to let her breathe, Claire saw in the ether the vague image of a woman facing the direction opposite her. Chic black suit, adorned with a pale yellow scarf, and long, silky, familiar brown hair.
Appearing to sense her presence in turn, the brunette pivoted to face her, extending a hand with a professional, bittersweet smile.
“My name’s Mia,” the attorney introduced herself. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you face to face. I… only wish it was under better circumstances.”
In the midst of an eternity spent untethered from existence, Claire placed her hand in Mia’s, and the warmth she found in the connection was real.
“Yes, well,” Claire replied, face flushing, “we have so much to talk about… don’t we?”