The Second That Never Ends

I sit upon this white throne of wood, watching the light fracture against the void. In one timeline—the one I am currently inhabiting—you are just out of frame, your hand reaching for mine to steady my breath in this clinical silence. The air is thick with the scent of rain and expensive coffee, a lingering ghost from our walk through the neon-drenched streets.

But as Clockmaker watches me, he sees the ripples I leave behind. In another thread of time, just three seconds before this moment began, we didn't meet at all; you were across town, lost in the hum of a subway station, and my white shirt remains perfectly pressed by loneliness rather than your touch.

In yet another divergence, the light doesn't fall so softly. It is harsh—a jagged blade cutting through our intimacy until we are strangers sharing an elevator ride instead of this intimate sanctuary. Yet here, in the golden stratum I chose to hold onto, my hair dances as if caught in a private gale, and your gaze anchors me.

I lean into you with every heartbeat that ticks toward eternity. The warmth radiating from your palm is more than physical; it is the healing of fractured seconds, an alchemy where time ceases to be a thief and becomes our companion. I close my eyes for just one millisecond—long enough for us to exist in two worlds at once: the one we are building now, and the beautiful phantom lives that never were.

Editor: The Clockmaker