The last echo of my voice hung in the air, a fragile declaration in a hall suddenly too quiet. My introduction, a carefully crafted blend of truth and a future I desperately sought, had been delivered. Now, the universe seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a response.
My gaze, a tether pulled taut, found the quiet presence. Her eyes, which had flickered to me for a fleeting second, now returned to the senior, a polite, almost imperceptible nod acknowledging my words. No shock, no recognition—just the calm acceptance of a new face. It was precisely as I remembered, yet the absence of any deeper spark felt like a cold splash of water, a reminder of the decades of distance between us.
The senior leader, her sharp bob swaying, clapped her hands again, shattering the brief silence.
"Excellent introductions, Group Three! Now, for our first activity, we're going to do a quick 'Two Truths and a Lie' to get to know each other better. Remember, keep it simple, and try to guess the lie!"
A ripple of nervous laughter and excited murmurs spread through our small circle. June, ever the enthusiast, bounced on the balls of his feet, already formulating his statements. The others exchanged hesitant glances, the typical teenage awkwardness settling in. But for me, the game was a strategic battlefield.
This wasn't just an icebreaker; it was the first opportunity, a delicate dance across the fragile bridge of time. My past self had fumbled this, had been too consumed by shyness to truly engage. This time, I would not be a ghost.
My mind raced, sifting through the fragments of my original orientation, searching for any detail, any memory that might serve as a compass. The 'Two Truths and a Lie' game itself was familiar, a small comfort in a world where the group number had already shifted. This consistency, this small anchor, was precious. It's a sign that while the map might be rusty, the landmarks were still there, waiting to be rediscovered.
June, unable to contain his eagerness any longer, practically launched himself forward. He grinned, clearly relishing the spotlight.
"Alright, listen up! Two truths and a lie: I can play three musical instruments, I scored the winning goal in my village's championship last year, and I love spicy food."
A few guesses flew around the circle. The bubbly girl guessed the instruments, while the shy boy thought he was lying about the championship goal.
I knew the truth, of course. June, with his fiery spirit and love for music, could absolutely handle three instruments, and his soccer prowess was legendary in his home village. But the love of spicy food… that was the lie?
In my memory, June had always devoured spicy food, a challenge he embraced with the same gusto he brought to everything else. Yet here he was, claiming a love for it that was a deliberate falsehood, meaning in this new timeline, he actually detested it. The appendectomy that changed his palate hadn't happened yet, but this aversion already existed. Another small, unsettling ripple. The map was indeed getting rustier, even in the details I hadn't expected to shift.
The quiet boy with glasses took his turn next, his voice a barely audible mumble as he shared his own three statements. The bubbly girl followed, her voice a rapid-fire stream of anecdotes. Each turn was a lesson in teenage normalcy, a world I had forgotten, now unfolding before me with startling clarity.
I observed the girl who haunted my dreams, her attention polite, her expression unreadable. I needed to learn the subtle rhythms of this past, to find the perfect moment to subtly guide the conversation, to weave myself into the fabric of her present.
Then it was my turn. My heart, which had finally settled, began its frantic rhythm anew. I cleared my throat, the sound dry in my ears.
"Okay," I began, my voice a little deeper than I remembered from my fifteen-year-old self.
"I hate homework, I once spent a whole summer trying to fix an old radio, and I never think about the future."
June immediately pointed at me. "Future! No way, I remember you always talking about what you're going to do after school, even last year!"
A few others murmured agreement, but the one whose very presence muted the world simply watched me, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt to her head.
Her silence is more unnerving than any guess. It was as if she were sensing the immense weight behind my words, the profound irony of a man obsessed with a future he was trying to reshape, speaking such a blatant lie. She seemed to glimpse the ghost of who I truly was, beyond the boy's facade.
The game continued, a slow, deliberate unfolding of small truths and carefully constructed deceptions. Each person's turn was a brief window into their nascent personalities. I noted everything, cataloging the details, searching for the familiar, bracing for the unexpected.
Finally, it was her turn. The air in the circle seemed to thicken, charged with a silent anticipation that only I could feel. The girl from the river town took a breath, her gaze sweeping over each of us, lingering for a fraction of a second on me before settling on the senior.
"Okay," she said, her voice soft, melodic, a sound that had haunted my dreams for decades.
"I love to read novels, I once rescued a stray kitten, and I secretly write poetry."
My breath hitched. The world tilted on its axis, but this time, it wasn't just a shift; it was a violent lurch. The first two were truths I knew, solid anchors in a sea of uncertainty. The novels, the kitten—they were etched into the map of my past, unblemished. But the poetry?
The poetry, in my memory, that wasn't her lie. That was a truth. A quiet, profound truth about her soul. It was a detail I had learned about much later, a shared vulnerability, a secret connection that had woven itself into the very fabric of us.
To hear it uttered now, as a mere fabrication, a clever deception for a game, felt like a personal erasure, a betrayal not just of my memory, but of the intimacy we had once shared. It was as if a piece of her, a piece I had carried and cherished for decades, had never existed in this timeline, leaving a gaping void where a precious understanding used to be.
The senior leader laughed. "That's a tough one, Vye! They all sound so true!"
But for me, the game had just shattered. The map wasn't just rusty; it had been subtly, terrifyingly rewritten. The very fabric of what I knew about her, about us, had shifted.
The art of doing, I realized, was not just about making new choices. It was about navigating a future that was already, irrevocably, different. And in that moment, the preciousness of what remained the same—her presence, her quiet grace, her very existence in this circle—became a desperate, fragile anchor in a sea of terrifying uncertainty.
A cold dread seeped into my bones, a deeper chill than the initial shock of the group change. This wasn't just a minor deviation; this was a re-sculpting of her very essence, a detail so intimate it felt like a betrayal of my own memory.
How many other cherished truths, how many other quiet connections, had been erased or altered? The weight of it pressed down, threatening to overwhelm the fragile hope I clung to.
I forced myself to take a deep, silent breath, clenching my fists inside my pockets, my knuckles white. Panic was a luxury I could not afford.
As the senior moved on, explaining the next activity, I felt a subtle shift in the circle. Vye, perhaps sensing my intense gaze, or simply turning in the natural flow of the group, glanced my way again.
This time, her eyes held a hint of curiosity, a soft question in their depths. It was fleeting, easily missed by anyone else, but for me, it was a lifeline. A tiny, almost imperceptible crack in the newly forged wall between her past and my present.
I offered her the smallest, most hesitant of smiles, a silent acknowledgment of the shared space, of the unfolding script we were now both a part of. It was a promise, unspoken, that I would find the truth, and I would not let her slip away again.