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Chapter 6 — The Distance Between Then and Now
Mira sat on the couch, the photograph trembling in her hands.
The image of my older self stared back at us from that tiny square of glossy paper, frozen mid-sentence, as if he was still writing something that mattered.
"Do you think this is some kind of trick?" she asked finally.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to believe that this could be explained by a technical glitch, a double exposure, anything that didn't rewrite the rules of time.
But my throat tightened around the lie.
Instead, I said, "I don't know anymore."
She looked at me carefully. "You're hiding something. I can tell."
"Mira—"
"No," she said, voice sharp. "Ever since those first emails, you've been… different. You're scared of something. What is it?"
Her eyes were steady, and I realized that keeping her in the dark was no longer protecting her — it was isolating both of us.
So I told her everything.
About the first email.
About the warnings.
About the train.
About the photo at Blue Note.
About the date — August 12, 2035.
When I finished, the room felt heavy, like the air itself was listening.
She didn't speak for a long time. Then, quietly, "You really believe it's your future self?"
"I don't know what else to believe," I said. "Every time I try to ignore it, something happens that proves it's real."
Mira leaned back, eyes distant. "And you think I'm part of it."
I hesitated. "The emails say your photographs… capture fragments of time. Maybe that's why we're connected. Maybe your camera doesn't just take pictures — it records what already happened in another version of reality."
She gave a hollow laugh. "You make it sound like I'm haunting us both."
I met her gaze. "Maybe we're haunting each other."
---
We sat there in silence for a long time, until she suddenly stood.
"Then we find out," she said. "If these pictures are echoes of something real — we go to where they were taken. We test it."
"Blue Note?"
She nodded.
---
The café was empty when we arrived, the air thick with dust and stale coffee.
The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, cutting the room into thin strips of gold.
Mira walked to the same table — the one from the photos — and set her camera down.
I followed, heart hammering.
"Okay," she said. "I'll take a picture of this exact moment. If the loop is real, maybe the image will show something else — maybe another version of us."
She adjusted the lens, focusing on me.
The shutter clicked.
We waited while the film wound back.
Then she rewound the roll and carefully removed it.
"Let's develop it here," I said. "There's a darkroom behind the stage. Rafiq used to keep it for the bands."
She hesitated, then nodded.
---
The darkroom smelled like chemicals and dust.
Under the red light, time felt thick and syrupy, every movement exaggerated.
We placed the film in the tray, watching as the image slowly surfaced — shapes emerging like ghosts returning to the world.
But what appeared wasn't this room.
It wasn't even this time.
It was Blue Note, yes — but not empty.
It was filled with people, with lights, with sound.
I was on the stage, older, hair streaked with silver, playing the same song I'd started writing years ago.
And sitting at the front table was Mira — smiling, tears in her eyes.
She covered her mouth with her hand. "That's… us."
I nodded, unable to speak.
The timestamp printed automatically at the bottom corner read: August 12, 2035, 8:14 PM.
Exactly the same date.
I felt the ground shift beneath me. "This is it. This is the loop."
Mira whispered, "Then what happens after that night?"
"I don't know," I said. "But whatever it is — my future self didn't want it to happen again."
---
That night, back in my apartment, I couldn't stop thinking about that photograph.
How could a picture we'd just taken show something ten years away?
And why did every clue point toward that same evening at Blue Note?
At 2:37 a.m., another email arrived.
> From: You (2035)
Subject: "The Song."
"It ends with her listening.
Don't play it before then.
Every time you do, the loop resets.
You can't save her if the melody completes too early."
My blood ran cold.
I stared at the guitar leaning against the wall — the same one from the photos.
All this time, I'd been rewriting the same song, the one Mira inspired, the one I'd never finished.
What if finishing it… ended everything?
---
The next morning, I found Mira asleep on my couch, the photograph resting on her chest.
Her camera sat beside her, still switched on, the lens cap off.
The screen flickered faintly, showing the last image we'd taken — and for a split second, before the screen dimmed, I saw something impossible.
In the reflection of the café window — behind our older selves — there was another figure.
Standing in the shadows, watching.
Me.
---
I backed away slowly, breath catching.
If I was in that picture, watching myself perform — then the loop had already closed once.
"Mira," I whispered, shaking her awake. "You need to see this."
She stirred, blinking. "What is it?"
I showed her the screen, but the reflection was gone. The image was normal again.
"Arjun, you need rest," she murmured. "You're seeing patterns in everything."
Maybe she was right. Or maybe I was finally seeing the truth.
Because somewhere deep down, I understood what the future me had meant.
The loop wasn't about technology or time machines.
It was emotional.
It was memory.
Every song, every photograph, every regret — they were anchors holding us to the same point in time, refusing to let go.
And I had built it myself.
---
That night, I recorded one final tape.
> "If you're listening, it means you've reached the night at Blue Note again.
You'll want to finish the song — don't.
Because that's the moment it happens.
The night you lose her."
I paused. The words trembled out of me like confession.
> "But if you love her enough to let her go… maybe the future changes.
Maybe you finally stop writing letters to yourself."
I stopped the recorder, exhaled, and looked out at the city.
The sky was turning red.