My Girlfriend is a Time Traveler – She Just Doesn't Know It Yet

The first time I noticed something strange about Elise, we were arguing about our first date.

"You wore a black dress with sunflowers," I said, kissing her temple as we washed dishes.

She froze, soap suds dripping from her fingers. "No, I didn't. It was blue with white polka dots."

I laughed. "Babe, I have photos."

When I pulled up the gallery, we both stared at the screen. There she was—smiling nervously across the café table in a sleek black dress dotted with yellow sunflowers.

Elise's face went pale. "That's impossible."

Clue #2: Our shared Google calendar. Events would appear that she swore she didn't add. Birthdays of people we hadn't met yet. Reservations at restaurants that wouldn't open for months.

Clue #3: The deja vu.

"Stop looking at me like that," she'd say when I stared too long at a restaurant.

"Like what?"

"Like you know what I'm going to order before I do." (I did. Always the mushroom risotto, ever since that rainy Tuesday in March that hadn't happened yet.)

Last night, I found the box in her closet.

Inside: polaroids of us at places we'd never been. A ticket stub from a 2043 jazz concert. And a worn leather journal filled with my handwriting—pages and pages of dates, times, and a single repeated phrase:

"Don't tell her she's the time traveler. It never ends well."

I slammed it shut when I heard her key in the door.

"Hey stranger," Elise said, kissing me hello. She smelled like lavender and something else—ozone, maybe. Like the air after a thunderstorm. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I forced a smile. "Just thinking how lucky I am."

She grinned, pulling a bakery box from her bag. "Then you'll love this. Got your favorite—"

"Red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting," I finished.

Elise froze. The box nearly slipped from her fingers.

"...How did you know?"