Pending

“Why is the clock melting?”

“Because it remembers tomorrow’s lunch.”

“We don’t have lunch plans tomorrow.”

“We did. Several times. We kept moving it.”

“Clocks don’t care about lunch.”

“They do when it’s the third time you cancel.”

“I’d remember cancelling three times.”

“You did. Until the dates got rearranged and your memory fell off the table.”

“That’s not how time works.”

“Time works however it wants when it’s been stood up.”

“Look at the calendar.”

“It’s empty. Like we never meant anything.”

“Turn the page.”

“There is no next page.”

“Why not?”

“We never pencilled one in. Not after the last attempt.”

“What last attempt?”

“The one you say you don’t remember.”

“I would remember trying to have lunch.”

“You kept saying we should talk ‘properly, over lunch.’ Ring any bells?”

“Doorbell.”

“There you go.”

“There is no door.”

“Regret doesn’t need a door. It just needs a sound.”

“I’m answering anyway.”

“Ask who it is.”

“Hello? Who’s there?”

“It says it’s us.”

“Us when?”

“Us from the day we actually made it to lunch.”

“I don’t… we never— did we?”

“In one version we did. That’s the one talking.”

“What do they want?”

“They’re asking if we’re dead yet.”

“Nice.”

“They need to know if they still become us or if they get archived.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked what time the lunch was.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all they cared about.”

“Clock just solidified.”

“Read the time.”

“It says seventeen o’clock. That isn’t real.”

“It is on the day we were meant to finally sit down.”

“We never set a time.”

“That’s why it picked one for us.”

“Check my watch.”

“Which one?”

“I only have— oh. Why am I wearing two watches?”

“One is tracking now. The other is tallying postponements.”

“What is it lagging behind?”

“Your body. It fell out of sync around the third ‘maybe next week.’”

“I hate this.”

“Everyone hates lag when it’s their life buffering.”

“The kettle’s boiling backwards.”

“Kettle, what are you doing?”

“It just poured cold water.”

“Reverse boiling. Time’s way of trying to cancel the tea you never had.”

“Calendar’s printing new dates.”

“Read them quickly. They’re skittish.”

“28th, 27th, 23rd, 90th, yesterday, and ‘Pending.’”

“That’s not chronological.”

“Chronology resigned when you started saying ‘soon’ instead of ‘yes.’”

“What’s Pending?”

“The day we were supposed to finally have that conversation.”

“Which conversation?”

“The one we kept promising each other in doorways and emails and ‘I’ll call you.’”

“Why is it sealed?”

“So we can’t pretend we’ll reschedule it.”

“With what is it sealed?”

“With wax made of all the times we said, ‘I’m just slammed this week.’”

“Lights flickered.”

“They’re translating.”

“Into what?”

“Into warning. They say, ‘Brace.’”

“Brace for what?”

“The overlap.”

“What overlap?”

“The moment when all the lunches we skipped show up at once.”

“I hear something.”

“Listen properly.”

“I hear screaming.”

“That’s the sound of future days realising they were never going to happen.”

“How early are they?”

“They’re late. Late screams louder.”

“My watch is ringing.”

“Which one?”

“The one with scratches.”

“That tracks the promises, not the minutes.”

“It says ‘Meet yourself.’”

“Of course it does. You never stayed long enough for that.”

“I don’t want to.”

“It’s not exactly a consent-based system.”

“Doorbell again.”

“Yes.”

“There is still no door.”

“Regret is good with workarounds.”

“Where is it ringing from?”

“Inside the scratched watch.”

“I’m answering.”

“Be polite. It’s the version that tried harder.”

“Hello?”

“Ask which one it is.”

“Which you are you?”

“It says it’s me from the day we didn’t cancel.”

“So the day we finally had lunch.”

“If you like.”

“What do they want?”

“They want to know why we stayed at our desks instead.”

“What do I tell them?”

“The truth.”

“I don’t remember the truth.”

“They say that’s why they don’t want to turn into us.”

“The calendar is sprouting.”

“About time.”

“What’s sprouting?”

“Dates. They’ve grown little stems.”

“They’re wrapping around the numbers.”

“The cancelled ones always cling the tightest.”

“Cut them off.”

“I tried.”

“When?”

“Last version.”

“What happened?”

“They grew back in your handwriting.”

“Time is photosynthesizing?”

“It’s feeding on our ‘maybe next week.’”

“My watch is vibrating again.”

“Which one?”

“The new one.”

“That one keeps track of opportunities, not hours.”

“It says ‘Yield.’”

“Yield to who?”

“Not who. When.”

“The clock is humming now.”

“Louder?”

“It sounds… angry.”

“Clocks shouldn’t have opinions.”

“Time gives opinions to anything that’s had to wait.”

“The vines are reaching for the kettle.”

“Kettle is backing away.”

“Since when can a kettle back away?”

“Since we started boiling water and then letting it go cold.”

“Kettle is brave.”

“Kettle remembers we used to sit down for five minutes.”

“Doorbell again.”

“Persistent, isn’t it.”

“There is STILL no door.”

“Check the wall instead.”

“What about the wall?”

“It’s thinning.”

“I can see through it.”

“What’s on the other side?”

“Before.”

“Before what?”

“Before we started replying, ‘Let’s definitely do it soon.’”

“Try closing it.”

“It won’t close.”

“Why not?”

“It says we never set a closing time.”

“The watches are vibrating together now.”

“What do they say?”

“One says ‘Run yesterday.’”

“And the other?”

“‘Arrive last week for once.’”

“That’s impossible.”

“Only if you still believe in straight lines.”

“I don’t know what I believe.”

“You believe in drafts of yourself. That’s enough.”

“The vines are around my ankle.”

“Don’t let them fix a date.”

“They’re already writing.”

“What does it say?”

“‘Expired appointment.’”

“No. Reject it.”

“How? With what authority?”

“With tea.”

“Tea! Help me out!”

“Tea is refusing.”

“Why?”

“It remembers every time we made it and then said, ‘I’ll drink it later.’”

“The clock is speaking.”

“Translate.”

“‘All moments ripen.’”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a harvest notice. All the ‘laters’ are now.”

“What do we do?”

“We can’t outrun time.”

“I know that.”

“And we can’t out-apologise it either.”

“There has to be something.”

“There is.”

“What?”

“The Pending.”

“The wax-sealed Pending?”

“Yes.”

“We’re not supposed to open that.”

“We weren’t supposed to stand each other up six times either.”

“What happens if we break it?”

“We find out what we never made room for.”

“I’m holding it.”

“Careful.”

“It’s heavier than I thought.”

“It’s carrying all the unsent ‘Are you free this week?’ messages.”

“I’m breaking the seal.”

“Do it now, before you answer another email.”

“…It’s empty.”

“Of course it is.”

“There’s nothing written.”

“Unwritten means unassigned.”

“Unassigned means… what, exactly?”

“It means nobody has promised it away yet.”

“So it’s free?”

“For now.”

“What do we do with free time?”

“We finally give it somewhere small to go.”

“Like where?”

“Like a table. Two chairs. Two plates. Nothing epic.”

“You mean actually have lunch?”

“The bar has never been higher or lower.”

“The clock is slowing down.”

“It’s listening.”

“The vines are loosening.”

“They don’t like meals that actually happen.”

“The watches are syncing.”

“They’re forgiving us in one-minute intervals.”

“The kettle’s boiling properly.”

“It’s hopeful. First time in a while.”

“Is it over?”

“Ask the lights.”

“Lights?”

“…What do they say?”

“‘For now. Book the table.’”

“All right. I will. I’ll book it now. Tomorrow at one?”

“We already tried tomorrow.”

“Then Friday.”

“You promised someone else Friday, remember?”

“Right. Saturday.”

“Saturday’s full of ‘maybe’ already.”

“Then… today. We’ll go today. We’ll just go.”

“Good.”

“I’ll message future us. Tell them we finally did it.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Listen.”

“…The scratched watch stopped ticking.”

“The line to the version who made it to lunch has been cut.”

“Did they die?”

“They chose not to turn into us.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means the only world where we actually sat down already decided we weren’t invited.”

“So it’s too late?”

“For them, yes.”

“For us?”

“We still have this one table we haven’t missed yet.”

“Do we?”

“Only until the clock changes its mind.”

“Is that enough?”

“For time? Never.”

“For us?”

“It might be the first thing that is.”

“What time is it?”

“Seventeen o’clock.”

“That’s not real.”

“It is on the day the clock melts.”

“Melts?”

“Look at it.”

“…Why is the clock melting?”