Phase Shift (5 of 6)
Theoria
Mira awoke because she was cold.
She reached out for her lover, but her hand met only air. A smile tugged at her lips anyway, happiness blooming in her chest like heat from a forgotten ember.
“He’s probably in the shower,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.
Then, a naughty thought flickered.
Maybe I’ll join him.
She sat up, stretching lazily, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the window. The storm had passed. A pale blue sky stretched endlessly above glittering snowdrifts. She stood, padding across the room, and pulled open the door to peek outside.
The air was clear. Bright. Crisp. Not a single footprint disturbed the smooth expanse between the cabin and the treeline.
She frowned slightly.
“I slept through all the wind, huh?”
But that made sense. She’d never been loved like that in her entire life. It was no wonder she’d slept like the dead.
“It’ll just mean more shoveling,” she muttered. Which might be fun to do together. She pictured his grin, his snow-dusted hair, the two of them passing a thermos of coffee between scoops.
She turned back toward the parking lot—and paused.
There were no signs of shoveling.
Not even a start. No half-cleared patch. No drag marks from a bin or bootprints in the drift.
Confused, she turned back to the futon.
The storage bin he’d dragged out and turned into a makeshift table was gone—back where it had been originally, perfectly aligned, once again bearing her scattered notes and equipment.
Why would he do that? Why bother putting it back?
Her smile faltered.
“Theo?” she called, voice bright but wavering. “I’m coming in!”
The bathroom was empty. The towel he’d used was gone. So was the extra toothbrush.
So was the feeling that someone had been there.
Her chest tightened.
She stepped into the kitchenette.
The sink was empty.
She opened the cupboard. All the dishes were stacked neatly, untouched.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the loaf of bread—completely sealed.
Not a single slice missing.
She turned to the fridge. Her eyes swept over the shelf.
All the beers were there. The eggs untouched.
The trash hadn’t been emptied.
The counters were smudged, dusty in places. Nothing had been wiped down.
She stepped back into the control room.
Cables coiled like snakes where she’d left them days ago. Power cords dangled from outlets. Labeled crates sat unsorted.
The place was exactly as it had been before Theo arrived.
She stood frozen.
Only the simulations still ran. Only her notepad showed signs of progress. Only her heart remembered him.
Theo was not there.
And maybe… he never had been.
Mira dropped onto the futon, overwhelmed, tears spilling down her cheeks.
How could he be gone?
She buried her face in her hands and wept—silent at first, then shaking, breath hitching. It wasn’t just sorrow. It was disbelief. Anger. Loneliness. The unbearable weight of something beautiful… unproven.
She cried for nearly an hour, until the sobs became tremors, until the exhaustion took her. Eventually, she drifted into uneasy sleep, curled in on herself like a question.
When she woke again, afternoon light slanted through the windows, gold and sharp. For a moment, she didn’t move—then the ache surged back like a wave crashing over her chest.
He’s gone.
But no. No.
She sat up suddenly, pressing a hand to her chest as if to steady her heart.
Had she imagined it?
But that couldn’t be. There was tenderness in her body still. A soreness in her muscles. A warmth in her core. The memory of his hands, his lips—and more. The feeling of surrender, of being seen and wanted and held.
She could still feel it.
She still felt him.
Whatever the world had erased, whatever timeline she’d preserved, her body hadn’t forgotten. Her heart hadn’t either.
It must have happened.
She closed her eyes and whispered his name—barely a breath, but enough.
Theo!
Over time, the details became hazy. The memory less acute. The ripples he had talked about began to smooth. But not the ache. And not the memory of that night.
Four weeks later, she had proof that it had happened.
She held the test in her hand.
Positive.
He had been there.
There had only ever been one time. There had only ever been one night. Only ever one man.
The ache bloomed again, not with sorrow this time—but with certainty. The world might rewrite itself, erase footprints and empty the sink, but it could not undo this.
Not the warmth she’d felt. Not the way he’d held her. Not the life now growing inside her.
She pressed a hand to her belly, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. Joy and grief and wonder, all tangled.
"You existed," she whispered.
"And now… so does this little one."
The ripples he had told her about. The messiness of time. It may have robbed her of him. But it hadn't taken their love. And it hadn't taken the result.
"I never told him I loved him" she would say. It was a mantra. The greatest part of her sorrow. He had told her early because he had always loved her. She had denied it. Disbelieved it. Refused it, almost. Except for that one night, their last night, when she accepted it, believed it, wanted it, and loved him in return.
But she had never said it.
Did he know? Could he sense it? Had he known from her letters?
Her letters!
Once the realization hit her, she began writing them to him in earnest. She told him all about their baby. Their little one, the changes to her body, the life they had created, and Mira just knew that, despite never revealing it to her, what as going to happen, because he had read them. Every letter she wrote from here until the end of her life, destined for him. He had already read them. He knew them all, and now she knew what he loved her from the start.
He was expressing his love, not just for her, but for their child, that he clearly knew about. Which meant that he knew of her love for him. And the more that time passed by, the more she grew to love him, miss him, adore him, and want him.
As she reflected on this, she now knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Theo had loved her, she had loved him, and they both knew it.
Her sorrow became beauty. Her letters became many.
In later years, she begged him to come to her. And with each word, she began to know that she was the reason he had come, knowing the sacrifice he made, knowing he could not come back, and knowing he would only ever have two nights with her, and every moment of their time together, he had loved her, patiently waiting for her, but knowing it would happen it its own time.
It was the most beautiful thing she could have imagined for her life.
Mira would look up at the stars at night—at her pulsar—and whisper,
“I love you too, Theo.”
In the end, she knew she’d been wrong.
He hadn’t told her he loved her first.
She had.
When her daughter was old enough, she began writing letters to her father, too. And Mira knew that Theo had read every single one of them years before he came to find her.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.