The wind outside howled like a warning.
Koyi sat on her bed, surrounded by the remnants of everything she believed to be true. The seventh letter, scorched and trembling in her hands, still echoed its warning. But it was the eighth letter—the one sealed in black wax—that left her breathless.
Aren had written it.
Not the Aren from today.
But a version of him she hadn't met yet. A version who lived in the shadow of regret.
> "I write to you not from tomorrow—but from after.
I am Aren.
Not the boy you know—but the man who made the worst decision of his life.
And you were the cost.
Don't let this version of me make the same mistake."
She reread those words over and over, searching for something beneath the ink. A clue. A reason. A lie. Anything that could explain how someone could speak across time—not just to her, but to himself.
What decision?
What did she cost him?
And why did he believe her presence in his life could destroy them both?
---
The next morning, she skipped school.
She wandered instead. The kind of wandering where every step felt like a question. Her feet carried her through the edges of the town, past broken fences and old street lamps, down toward the lake no one visited anymore.
The sky was overcast. Soft winds played with her hair.
She sat on the old wooden dock, hugging her knees, letters clutched tightly in her hands. The black one felt heavier, like it wasn't paper at all—but some kind of stone. A burden.
Was she falling for someone whose future self warned against it?
The thought scared her. Not because she didn't believe it—but because some part of her still wanted him. Even now.
---
Footsteps.
She turned sharply. Aren was walking slowly toward her, hands in his pockets, eyes soft but guarded.
"You weren't at school," he said.
"You followed me?"
"I waited," he said honestly. "I had a feeling you'd be here."
He stopped a few steps away, unsure if he was welcome.
Koyi didn't speak. She just held up the black-sealed letter and watched his expression carefully.
His brows furrowed. "You got another one?"
She nodded. "From you. The future version."
He stiffened. "What did it say?"
"That I was the cost of a decision you made. That you regret me."
Aren's mouth opened slightly. He stepped closer but didn't sit beside her. "Can I see it?"
She handed it to him, her fingers brushing his.
He read the letter in silence. The more he read, the paler he grew.
When he finally looked up, something had changed in his eyes.
"This… this isn't a warning," he said quietly. "It's a confession."
"What do you mean?"
He knelt in front of her. "I've had dreams. Not just of you, but of something breaking. A choice. I see flashes of it—me walking away from you. Leaving. And time collapsing behind me like glass shattering."
Koyi stared at him, her voice soft. "Why would you walk away from me?"
"I don't know. But I think I did it to protect you."
She looked away. "Then maybe you should do it now."
"No."
He stood up, suddenly passionate. "That's what he—I—did wrong. He let fear win. He believed that keeping you at arm's length would save you. But I won't make that mistake."
"Aren—"
"No, listen." His voice shook. "Everything inside me tells me you're important. Not just to the world. To me. I don't care if time bends or collapses. I'd rather burn with you than live safe without you."
Her throat tightened.
He stepped closer. "Let me show you something."
---
They walked in silence to the edge of town, to the abandoned observatory near the cliffs. It had been locked for years, a forgotten place—but Aren pulled out a rusted key from his pocket.
"You've been here before?" she asked.
He nodded. "In my dream. I found the key taped under the bench outside." He motioned to the wooden seat. "And when I checked in real life... it was there."
The door creaked open.
Inside, it smelled of dust and silence. The dome ceiling arched above them like a hollow sky, and old machinery stood like forgotten statues in the dark.
But what caught Koyi's attention was the wall.
It was covered in papers.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Pages pinned, taped, nailed—photocopies, journal entries, maps. All scribbled in two kinds of handwriting. Hers—and his.
She moved closer.
"Letter 3 contradicts Letter 6. Temporal shift?"
"Koyi smiles differently when she lies. Note: Day 5."
"He kissed her in this version. She cried after. Memory jump?"
"DON'T GO TO THE TREE ON THE 27TH."
Koyi's knees buckled. She gripped the nearest desk to steady herself.
"You've been keeping track?" she whispered.
Aren looked ashamed. "I didn't want to scare you. I've been writing letters too—just not sending them. I've been trying to piece it all together. Every dream. Every change in time. Every version of our story."
She spun to face him. "How many versions?"
"I don't know," he whispered. "Maybe infinite. But this one… this is the only one where I stayed."
The weight of that hit her hard.
"So you're saying there are worlds where you left?"
He nodded. "And in every one of those worlds… you broke."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. "So what happens to me if you leave this time?"
"I think you stop believing in the letters. And then… they stop coming."
She backed away slowly. "This isn't love. This is madness. Time shouldn't work like this."
"But it does," he said softly. "And I think it always has. We're just the ones brave—or stupid—enough to notice."
---
That night, Koyi dreamed of fire.
The eucalyptus tree was ablaze. Letters floated into the air like ash, each one screaming her name. She saw herself running through the flames, chasing a boy with silver-blue eyes.
But no matter how fast she ran, he was always out of reach.
She woke up gasping.
The ninth letter sat on her window. This one was sealed in clear wax. The envelope was nearly translucent, almost invisible.
She opened it with trembling fingers.
> "If you're reading this, the choice hasn't been made yet.
Aren can stay. But you must pay the price.
Nothing ever comes free—not even love across time.
If you keep him, the future changes. So does your story.
Decide.
You are closer to the truth than you think."
She folded the letter and clutched it to her chest.
And then, without thinking, she picked up a pen and wrote her own letter. For the first time since this began, she wasn't just receiving anymore.
She was answering.