The Timeline Where You Didn’t Leave

I hadn’t bought it. I hadn’t seen it before. And yet, it fit perfectly, as if it had always belonged to me.
The screen flickered once, then displayed a single line of text:
“Timeline Active.”
I laughed under my breath. I’d been working too many night shifts at the lab. My brain was clearly filling in gaps where sleep should have been.
Then the watch vibrated.
The room shifted.
Not violently. Not dramatically. Just enough that my stomach dropped and my breath caught. The walls shimmered, the hum of the lights deepened, and suddenly… the apartment looked lived in.
Not mine.
There were two mugs on the counter.
Two jackets by the door.
My heart started racing.
“No,” I whispered.
A voice came from the hallway.
“Did you change the coffee filter again?”
I turned so fast my neck hurt.
There you were.
Older. Softer around the eyes. Wearing the hoodie you’d stolen from me years ago and never returned.
“You left,” I said. My voice cracked. “You left three years ago.”
You frowned. “I went to the store. I told you I’d be back in ten minutes.”
The watch buzzed again.
“Deviation Confirmed.”
I backed away, my hands shaking.
This wasn’t possible. You and I didn’t exist like this. Not anymore. In my world, you walked out after the argument that broke everything. In my world, I never saw you again.
But here you were, standing in our kitchen like nothing ever went wrong.
I swallowed hard.
“What day is it?” I asked.
You raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“What. Day. Is it?”
“Thursday,” you said slowly. “Why?”
The watch pulsed warm against my skin.
I realized then what it was doing.
It wasn’t showing me the past.
It was showing me a version of reality where you stayed.
I spent the next few days pretending everything was normal.
I went to work. I came home. I laughed at your jokes. I memorized the way you moved through the space, terrified that if I looked away too long, you’d disappear.
At night, I lay awake watching you breathe.
In this timeline, we were happy. Not perfect—but real. We fought about small things. We made up easily. We talked about the future like it wasn’t fragile.
I checked the watch constantly.
Timeline Stable.
Then one morning, it changed.
“Correction Required.”
My chest tightened.
That night, I finally told you the truth.
Not about the watch. Not about timelines.
But about us.
“In another version of my life,” I said quietly, “you left.”
You stopped washing dishes.
“Left how?”
“You walked out. And you never came back.”
You turned to face me, eyes searching my expression for something like a joke.
“And what did you do?” you asked.
“I let you go,” I said. “I thought it was easier than fighting.”
The room felt heavier.
You dried your hands slowly. “And was it?”
“No,” I whispered. “It ruined me.”
The watch buzzed violently.
“Emotional Anchor Detected.”
You reached for my hand. “Then maybe that’s why this version exists.”
My heart skipped.
“Maybe this time, you don’t let fear decide.”
For a moment, I believed that.
The warning came two days later.
“Timeline Collapse Imminent.”
I stared at the watch until my vision blurred.
I’d changed too much. Said too much. Loved too openly.
The universe was correcting itself.
That evening, the power flickered. The air felt wrong—thin, stretched. You noticed it too.
“What’s happening?” you asked.
I didn’t answer.
When the room began to shimmer again, panic crossed your face.
“Hey,” you said, gripping my arm. “What’s going on?”
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
“This world isn’t mine,” I admitted. “And I don’t think I’m allowed to keep it.”
The watch burned hot.
“Final Choice Available.”
I understood instantly.
I could stay.
If I stayed, this timeline would stabilize. I would keep you. This life would continue.
But my world—the one where you left, where the lab existed, where everything I knew was built—would collapse without me.
You looked at me like you already knew.
“You’re not from here,” you said softly.
I shook my head.
“But you belong somewhere,” you continued. “And I won’t be the reason you abandon it.”
I sobbed.
“I don’t want to lose you again.”
You cupped my face. “You’re not losing me,” you said. “You’re choosing yourself.”
The watch vibrated one last time.
“Decision Confirmed.”
I held you as the room dissolved into light.
I woke up alone.
My apartment was quiet. One mug. One jacket.
The watch was gone.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Sometimes, I wondered if it had all been a dream.
Until one morning, at a coffee shop across town, someone brushed past me and said—
“Sorry.”
I froze.
I turned.
You were there.
Different clothes. Same eyes.
You frowned, then smiled politely. “Have we met?”
I swallowed.
“Not yet,” I said.
But this time, when you started to walk away—
I didn’t let you.