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Twelve years. That's how long it's been since I first opened these eyes—eyes that still startle people even now. Red isn't a common color here, not among the Tennysons anyway. But the funny thing is, when I stand next to Mom and Dad—Sandra and Carl—I almost look like them.
Same hair color. Same bone structure. Even a similar smile, though theirs comes from years of quiet patience and mine… well, I borrowed it. Sometimes, when Mom brushes my hair from my face or Dad laughs while showing me how to tune the Van's old engine, I catch myself wondering if the universe did this on purpose. If it shaped me in their image to make the lie easier to live with.
They never made me feel like an outsider. Never once. To them, I was their son—simple as that. And honestly, it's hard not to believe it.
But, like all things born from the wrong timeline, I'm not without oddities.
Ever since I could remember, there's been something strange about the world around me. Not voices or visions, nothing dramatic. Just… fluctuations. Little ripples in the air. Sometimes, when the night is too quiet, I feel them—like invisible waves brushing against my skin. A hum of something vast and alive lurking beneath the ordinary.
I never mention it. How could I? Try explaining to your parents that the world feels like it's breathing when no one else notices.
Still, life went on.
At school, things came easily. I became that kid everyone liked but didn't really know—the calm one, the one who always had a quiet answer and a smirk during class. Somehow, people found that charming. I never asked for it, but I didn't hate it either.
Then there's Gwen.
We're not siblings, not by blood. Natalie and Frank's daughter. My cousin. But somehow, it's always felt like we grew up as brother and sister. We used to get along—building forts, watching cartoons, making fun of each other's features .
Now, though… things are different. Gwen's sharper, quicker to argue, more irritable than I remember. I don't know what changed. Maybe it's just growing up. Maybe it's me. Every time I try to bridge the distance, she pulls away just slightly, like I remind her of something she doesn't understand.
Sometimes, when I catch her staring at my eyes, I think she sees that something's off.
Still, my parents make up for the distance. Mom practically smothers me with affection, always worrying, always checking if I've eaten enough or slept enough. Dad's the calmer one—steady hands, quiet smile. Together, they make this life feel… real.
And for the most part, it is.
Now I sit on the couch, the ticking of the old wall clock filling the silence. Summer's begun, the air warm and lazy. Grandpa's supposed to arrive any minute. The last time I saw him, he stopped by for dinner and left me with a long look, the kind that said more than words.
Something's coming. I can feel it again—the world humming faintly, like static before a storm.
Funny thing is, the summer trip was supposed to happen two years later. But if there's one thing I've learned… timelines have a strange way of shifting when I get involved.
Almost everything's the same. Almost.
And somehow, that "almost" feels huge.
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