Small, hesitant steps forward, interrupted by sudden waves of tears, edge me closer to moving on. It takes ten days to replace my credit cards, each call and form a tedious chore reminding me of how much he had made my life easier. I can't bring myself to abandon the white card, locked behind glass walls, where it feels safe yet unreachable. Maybe tomorrow. The day after, I'll drop off a cologne bottle. Another one the day after that. In a week, I'll pack up Beth's collection. I set up to have myself deleted from the house's biometric security system in a month. Maybe then I'll text him a final goodbye… maybe.
Sadness is heavy, shifting through different parts of my body. Sometimes, it crushes my chest. Other times, it sinks low in my stomach. Today, it presses squarely on my shoulders. Yet, amidst the heaviness, a faint sense of freedom sneaks in, lightening my steps as I walk the pristine campus road toward the bus stop—our designated Uber point. May's sun wraps around me, its golden light nudging at the edges of possibility. I close my eyes, tilting my face upward to soak it in.
Graduation looms on the horizon, with summer trailing close behind because time waits for no one.
What should I do next? What can ease this pain? I can't work in the tech industry. The proximity to advanced technology remains far too tempting. The CIA has locked me out of the private sector. Without their blessing, I'll never pass the clearance for research that matches my skills—unless I crawl back to them or the government. I could disappear—fake my death, flee to some remote corner of the world, and build in secret. But even then, the things I create would inevitably fall into the wrong hands.
Roberto was right to destroy my inventions. I once thought he wanted to smother my creativity, to stop me. But two years under the CIA's thumb—and four more eluding their grip—taught me the truth. He was preventing my creation to be taken by the wrong hands.
Even this campus is a charade, part of my effort to elude the CIA. Almost two years ago, while working on a case, I had to give up some of my anonymity to save the person I was tasked with finding. So to stay off the CIA's radar, I pretended to blend in by enrolling in a master's program at CalTech. For the last two years, being a CalTech student has been another layer covering up my secret lives. Turned out being a student is the best cover yet. It's either that or a boring job. Being on the CIA Red Flag list, a lifelong sentence, was an irreversible mistake. One that I could never regret making. There was no other way to find Roberto.
Four hundred and nine years into the future—that was my calculation for when technology would finally catch up to me, when I might belong. I added twenty-seven years to account for the recalibration of successful artificial wombs and empathetic humanoid robots that could serve as nannies. Roberto wanted children, and in that future, we could have had as many as he desired. If he had listened—if we'd gone four hundred and thirty-six years into the future together—wouldn't we be happy now?
Instead, I'm stuck here in this timeline, trapped in a world not yet ready for what I can create. I fill the boredom with hobbies and trying to unravel the complexity of being human. Chained to these feelings. Burdened by them. The oppressive emotions return, pressing hard against my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I open my mouth, gasping for air.
The Uber's four minutes out when Jason's name lights up my screen again, dragging me back to the present. I've been ignoring his messages and voicemails—they're always the same. Ace, please call me back. Ace, don't ignore me. I need to talk to you. He probably wants to explain the stain that can't be erased. He also probably wants to discuss the joint business venture between me and Mr. Silence. That will have to be the last tie I cut. Maybe I'll give Jason the card.
The terrifying thought creeps in once more: Maybe he'll come back. Maybe, if I wait long enough, he'll appear.Maybe, if I hold on, he won't let go. The tears come next as I reprimand myself. If he had wanted to come back, he wouldn't have left. He could have explained. We could have talked about it. No. He wanted to leave.
I collapse onto an empty bench, shutting my eyes against the tidal waves of emotional pain that pulses like muted beeping droning in my ears. My hands clench into fists on my lap, arms tense, my posture rigid as if bracing for a roller coaster's inevitable drop. How can this agony cut as deeply as the ecstasy he gave me?
When it quiets again, exhaustion weighs me down. I wipe my tear-streaked cheeks and open my eyes. And there he is, standing before me in the off-blue vicuña suit I bought him months ago, as if he's stepped out of my fractured memories. I blink rapidly, disbelief mingling with the sting of unshed tears. He snatches my laptop bag, clutching it like a hostage, before his hand engulfs mine. The warmth of his touch grounds me, while the spicy amber mixed with something darker confirms his presence, forcing me to believe he's real. I follow him.