"Hey," Ethan said, reaching her, breathless. He tilted his head, frowning when she didn't smile. "What's wrong?"
Emma's throat tightened. She wanted to scream the truth—that he would ruin her, that he would betray her, that one day she would be broken and alone in a cold apartment because of him.
But all she managed was a whisper. "You don't know me."
Ethan laughed softly, confused. "Of course I know you. You're Emma Shaw. My Emma." He reached for her hand, warmth searing against her skin.
She flinched, pulling back.
And then, just as suddenly, the world dissolved.
Emma gasped awake in her bed, workbook sprawled open beside her. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs, sheets damp with sweat.
She grabbed her pen with shaking fingers:
I saw you. I was there. I was seventeen again. How is this happening?
The reply was hesitant, almost frightened:
I don't know. But I felt you today. When I touched your hand, it was like… you were slipping away. Emma, what's happening to us?
Her tears blurred the ink as she wrote back:
I don't know. But I can't do this. It hurts too much. Please, Ethan, stop writing to me.
Even as she pleaded, a part of her knew it was impossible to stop what had begun. Time, memory, and heart were tangled now—and there was no turning back.