The portal shimmered closed behind him, leaving him alone with the sound of his own breathing. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering just inches from the door.
You've faced interdimensional threats and cosmic dangers, he reminded himself. You can handle one conversation.
Finally, he knocked, the sound echoing faintly in the hallway. Stephen straightened, his usual composure slipping into place, though the faint flutter of nerves remained.
The door creaked open, and Christine Palmer stood there, her eyes widening in surprise. Her auburn hair was pulled back, and she looked like she'd been settling in for the evening, wearing a simple cardigan and jeans. She froze when she saw Stephen, her lips parting slightly as her eyes darted across his face, searching for answers.
"Stephen?" she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Stephen held her gaze, his expression calm but tinged with sadness. He could already see the glimmer of tears forming in her eyes, and it twisted something deep inside him.
"Christine," he said softly, his tone measured but careful. "May I come in?"
She hesitated, her hand tightening slightly on the edge of the door. "I—yes, of course. Come in."
Stepping inside, Stephen glanced around the small but cozy apartment. Books and medical journals were scattered on the coffee table, a half-empty mug of tea sitting beside them. It was a scene so familiar it almost hurt.
Christine closed the door behind him, her movements hesitant as if she were afraid he might disappear if she blinked. When she turned back to him, there was a fragile hope in her eyes that made his chest ache.
"How—" She took a shaky breath, brushing a hand through her hair as she struggled to form the words. "How is this possible? Stephen, I thought you were—" Her voice broke slightly, and she blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears.
Stephen's hands twitched at his sides, his calm exterior cracking slightly as he searched for the right words. He couldn't draw this out—it would only make it worse.
"I'm not your Stephen," he said gently, the words slicing through the room like a knife.
Christine's brow furrowed in confusion, her hope faltering but not yet gone. "What do you mean? Of course, you're—you're standing right here."
Stephen shook his head slowly, his voice steady but laced with quiet pain. "I'm not the Stephen Strange you knew. Not... really. I'm from a different universe."
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Christine just stared at him, her mouth slightly open as if she were waiting for the punchline to some cruel joke.
"What are you talking about?" she finally asked, her voice trembling. "Different universe? Stephen, that doesn't make any sense."
Stephen sighed, his nerves bubbling beneath the surface as he lifted one hand. A faint golden light began to swirl around his fingers, and with a subtle flick of his wrist, a shimmering rune appeared in the air between them. The soft hum of magic filled the room, casting a warm glow on Christine's stunned face.
Her breath hitched, and she took a step back, her hand covering her mouth. "What—what is this?"
"Magic," Stephen said simply, his voice tinged with a nervous edge. He let the rune dissolve into sparks, lowering his hand as he met her wide-eyed gaze. "I know how it sounds. I know it's... impossible to believe. But it's the truth. I'm not your Stephen Strange. I'm a version of him from another reality."
Christine's hand dropped to her side, her eyes searching his face as if trying to reconcile the man in front of her with the man she'd lost. "Another... reality," she repeated faintly, the words catching in her throat.
Stephen nodded, his throat tightening as he pressed on. "In my universe, I was a surgeon too. But things happened—things that led me to discover the mystic arts. I... died there, or at least I was supposed to. Instead, I woke up here, in your world."
Christine stared at him, her expression flickering between disbelief and a painful, fragile understanding. "You're telling me you're Stephen Strange, but not my Stephen Strange," she said slowly, as if testing the words out loud.
"Yes," Stephen said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Christine. I didn't want to give you false hope. I thought it was better to tell you the truth right away."
Tears spilled over her cheeks now, and she brushed them away quickly, her movements almost angry. "This is... a lot to process," she said, her voice breaking again. "You look like him. You sound like him. But you're saying you're not him?"
Stephen nodded, his gaze unwavering. "I have his face, his voice, his memories, but I'm not him. I'm not the man you knew."
Christine let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she wrapped her arms around herself. "Why... why are you telling me this? Why now?"
"Because you deserve the truth," Stephen said, his tone firm despite the ache in his chest. "You cared for him. You loved him. I thought you should know... before rumors spread further. You've probably already seen the news."
She nodded faintly, her eyes flickering with recognition. "There were... rumors. People saying you'd been rescued with Tony Stark."
"That's why I had to clarify things," Stephen said. "To set the record straight before it got out of hand. But I also wanted to see you, Christine. To let you know that even though I'm not him, I... respect what he meant to you. And I want to honor that."
Christine's lips trembled as she looked away, her gaze falling to the floor. "I don't know how to feel about this," she admitted.
"I don't expect you to," Stephen said gently. "Take all the time you need. I just... didn't want to hide from you."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the city outside the apartment window.
Finally, Christine looked up at him, her expression a mix of sadness and gratitude. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For being honest."
Stephen offered her a faint, bittersweet smile. "You deserve nothing less."
Christine stood there for a long moment, her arms still wrapped around herself as though holding the pieces of her composure together. Her tear-filled eyes flickered back to Stephen, and she inhaled sharply, as if trying to steady herself.
"I need time," she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. "Time to process... all of this." She gestured vaguely between them, her fingers trembling. "But don't think for a second that you're walking away from this without explaining everything to me. Because I will want answers, Stephen—" her voice hitched slightly, and she corrected herself, "—or whoever you are."
Stephen's lips parted, but no immediate response came. Then, to his surprise, he felt a small, unexpected wave of relief. This was the Christine he remembered—the woman with a quiet but unyielding strength. No matter the situation, no matter how impossible it seemed, she always found a way to stand firm.
He nodded, his expression soft. "Of course," he said, his voice gentler now. "Take all the time you need. I'll be here when you're ready."
Christine sniffed, blinking back fresh tears as she held out her hand, palm open. "Give me your number," she demanded, her tone clipped but trembling. "And I want you to save mine. Eventually, I'll want to know everything. Everything. And you're going to sit there and tell me."
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Stephen's lips, and he reached into the pocket of his jacket to pull out his phone. The gesture was so mundane compared to the strangeness of the situation that it almost felt absurd. Quickly, they exchanged numbers, their phones lighting up with the confirmations.
As he handed her phone back, Stephen allowed himself to study her for a moment. Despite the tears threatening to spill again, her posture remained straight, her chin tilted upward. She was still grieving, still processing, but there was a spark in her that he'd always admired.
"You're as stubborn as ever," he said softly, his tone carrying a hint of warmth.
Christine let out a faint laugh, though it was tinged with sadness. "Yeah, well... someone has to be."
He wanted to say more, to offer something—anything—that could ease the weight of what he'd just dropped on her. But he knew there was nothing he could say that wouldn't feel hollow. Instead, he simply nodded, stepping back toward the door.
"I'll let you rest," he said quietly, his hand reaching for the doorknob.
Christine's eyes softened, and she gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Thank you, Stephen," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He hesitated for a brief moment, his hand lingering on the doorknob. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoing in the quiet space.
He stopped just outside, his heart heavy as he leaned against the wall for a moment. The conversation had gone about as well as he could have hoped, but that didn't make it any easier.
Then, faintly, through the door, he heard it—a muffled, broken sound. Her tears.
Stephen closed his eyes, the sound cutting through him like a blade. He fought the urge to turn back, to knock on the door again, to say something—anything—to ease her pain. But he knew better. This was her moment to grieve, to process. It wasn't his place to take that from her.
Instead, he straightened, letting out a slow, steadying breath. He'd given her the truth. That was all he could do for now.
As he began walking down the hallway, he couldn't help but feel the weight of her tears linger with him. But beneath the ache, there was a small, flickering hope—hope that, in time, she'd find her own way forward, just as he was trying to do.
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