The last thing I felt was the rough shove against my shoulders, the world tilting violently as I stumbled back into empty air. The wind screamed in my ears, whipping my hair across my face, stealing my breath. Below, the city lights of Rise Apartments blurred into streaks of cold, indifferent gold.
And him. Neo stood silhouetted against the moonlit sky on our balcony, his face—the face I loved more than my own life—was a mask of cold resolve. There was no anger, no regret. Just… nothing.
*I loved him,* the thought screamed in my head, a final, desperate prayer as the ground rushed up to meet me. *I always loved him.*
The impact was a shattering, world-ending pain. And then, nothing.
***
A gasp tore from my throat, raw and ragged. My eyes flew open.
Sunlight. Not the cold embrace of concrete, but the warm, gentle morning sun streamed through the familiar gauzy white curtains of my bedroom. The air smelled of lemon polish and the lavender fabric softener I always used.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, living drum. I scrambled, my hands flying over my body, patting down the soft cotton of my pajamas. No broken bones. No blood. Just the steady, terrified thrum of my own pulse.
"Emma? You okay in there?" His voice. *His* voice. Smooth as honey, laced with a morning rasp that used to make my knees weak.
Neo stood in the doorway of the en suite bathroom, a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets still glistening on his skin. He was exactly as I remembered him in our best days: tall and leanly muscular, with sun-streaked brown hair still damp and falling over his forehead. His eyes, a warm, melted-chocolate brown, crinkled at the corners with a hint of concern. The faint, familiar scar cut through his left eyebrow—a relic of a childhood accident.
It was a dream. A horrible, vivid, gut-wrenching nightmare.
"You were thrashing around," he said, walking toward the bed. He smelled of clean soap and his minty shampoo. My heart ached with a love that felt suddenly tainted, poisoned by the phantom memory of his shove. "Bad dream?"
I could only nod, my throat too tight to speak. I watched him, every movement, every expression, searching for a flicker of the coldness I'd just witnessed. There was none. This was my Leo. My loving, attentive Neo.
He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead. "It's okay, sweetheart. I'm here. It was just a dream."
The comfort I would have once melted into now felt like a lie. I forced a shaky smile. "Yeah. Just a dream."
The day unfolded with a dizzying sense of déjà vu. At breakfast, he made us avocado toast, sprinkling the exact same amount of red pepper flakes he always did. He talked about a meeting he was nervous about later that afternoon—a meeting with a client named Mr. Schiffman.
My spoon froze halfway to my mouth. Mr. Schiffman.
I knew this. I had lived this.
A cold dread, entirely separate from the dream, began to trickle down my spine. This wasn't just a feeling. The details were too precise.
Later, as I scrolled through my phone, a news headline caught my eye: "Local Gallery to Host Modernist Exhibit." I'd read this before. I'd even discussed it with Leo, complaining about how we never went to things like that anymore.
The pieces clicked into place with a terrifying, silent finality. The meeting with Schiffman. The avocado toast. The newspaper headline.
It wasn't a dream.
The memory of the fall wasn't a nightmare; it was a memory. A premonition. A warning.
I had lived this day before. I had lived the months that would follow. And it would all end with his hands on my shoulders, pushing me into the void.
I was living it all again.
The realization struck me with the force of the ground I never truly hit. I was back in the past. And I knew how this story ended.