Nostalgia, Now in Fabric
Kids, there's a dangerous kind of nostalgia no one warns you about.
Not the kind where you miss your childhood.
Not the kind where you miss your ex.
No. I'm talking about the kind where you miss… a shirt.
And somehow, that shirt convinces you to ruin someone's life. Twice.
---
It started on a Tuesday, which is when all the worst ideas sneak up on you.
Marshall was up on a chair in our apartment, digging through a box in the top of the closet. There were coats, old textbooks, and at least one thing that looked like it might be a cursed lamp.
"Why do we own this many sweaters?" he asked. "We live in New York, not Narnia."
"Those are my winter sweaters," I said from the couch.
"Are these your summer sweaters?" he asked, pulling out another stack.
"Layering is important," I protested.
He rolled his eyes and came down from the chair, dropping a smaller box on the coffee table.
"This one's unlabeled," he said. "Could be treasure. Could be old socks."
"It's probably college stuff," I said, reaching for it.
The cardboard was soft with age, corners rounded, tape yellowed. I peeled it back and got hit with a smell that was part dust, part laundry detergent, part… memory.
Inside were photos, a stack of flyers from architecture exhibits, and a folded, familiar splash of green.
I froze.
"Oh my God," I breathed. "The shirt."
Marshall frowned. "What shirt?"
I lifted it out gently, like it might crumble. Faded forest green, soft cotton, buttons slightly scratched. Completely ordinary. Completely magic.
"This shirt," I said. "I used to wear this all the time sophomore year. I loved this thing."
"It's a shirt, dude, not a golden retriever," Marshall said. "Why is your face doing that?"
Because I was already gone. Transported.
Nights in college. Cheap beer, loud music, strangers' apartments. Me in this shirt, feeling, for once, like I wasn't invisible. Like I looked… good.
"It was my lucky shirt," I said. "Good things happened when I wore it. Parties. Dates. Confidence. It made me feel… I don't know. Cool."
"That's because it was the early 2000s," Marshall said. "The bar was on the floor."
I held the shirt up in front of me.
"Maybe it still works," I said.
He groaned.
"Ted," he said. "We're grown-ups now. You can't rebuild your life around a top from your sad boy era."
But he was wrong.
Because as I slipped that shirt on, something shifted.
It fit. Not perfectly—my shoulders were broader now, and it pulled a little at the chest—but close enough. The fabric settled over me like it had been lost and found.
I looked in the mirror.
"Dude," I said. "It's still good."
Marshall squinted.
"Eh," he said slowly. "It's… fine."
"It's more than fine," I insisted. "Look, it drapes. That's a drape."
"It's a wrinkle," he said. "You're projecting."
Future Me sighed.
Kids, if anyone ever tells you "it's just a shirt," listen to them. They're trying to save you.
I did not listen.
---
Later that night at MacLaren's, I made my entrance in the shirt.
The bar was its usual mix of brick, dim light, and the smell of fries. Lily and Marshall were already in the booth. Robin sat next to Lily, notebook half-open. And across from them, sprawled sideways with a drink balanced on his stomach, was Nox.
He clocked me the second I walked in.
"Oh no," he said.
"What 'oh no'?" I asked, sliding in.
He gestured vaguely at my torso.
"This," he said. "This is a midlife crisis."
"I'm twenty-seven," I said.
"Quarter-life crisis, then," he corrected. "Just as tragic, fewer convertibles."
Lily leaned in, squinting at my chest.
"Is that… new?" she asked.
"It's old," I said, a little offended. "From college. I just found it in the back of the closet. It's my green shirt."
"It's very… green," Robin said carefully.
"It was his lucky shirt," Marshall added, traitorously. "Back in college, he thought it made him look hot."
"Thought?" I said. "Marshall, I did look hot."
"You looked like a guy who knew all the lyrics to Dave Matthews and cried during broadcasts of the Discovery Channel," he said.
"I was sensitive," I protested.
"You were insufferable," he said.
Nox tapped the table.
"Okay, let's all calm down," he said. "What's actually happening here is not about fabric. It's about Teddy having an early-onset nostalgia episode."
"It's not nostalgia," I said. "When I wore this shirt, good things happened. I went to parties, I met girls, I felt… confident. Maybe I can tap into that again."
"Or," Nox said, "you could just… work on your confidence. In therapy. Like a person who has met the concept of 'growth.'"
Lily tilted her head.
"I mean… he does look kind of cute," she admitted. "In a vintage, earnest-rom-com way."
"See?" I told Nox. "Lily gets it."
"Lily thinks finger paintings are 'powerful expressions of the soul,'" he said. "Her bar for earnest is not helpful."
Robin's eyes lingered on the shirt, then on my face.
"If it makes you feel good," she said finally, "wear it."
"Exactly," I said. "Thank you, Robin."
"But just so you know," she added, "if you start saying things like 'maybe I peaked in college,' I'm leaving."
I put a hand over my heart.
"I would never say that," I said. "I just… kind of miss who I was then."
"Who you were was drunk and confused," Marshall said.
"That's who I am now," I said. "Just with better shoes."
Nox took a sip of his drink.
"So what's the end goal here?" he asked. "You wear the magic shirt, what happens? You magically find love? Get laid? Accidentally invent a new psychosis?"
I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the question.
"I don't know," I said. "I guess I just… want to feel like I did back then. Like anything could happen."
There was a pause.
Then Nox snorted.
"Okay," he said. "Prepare for anything, then."
---
Kids, remember when I told you about the dangerous kind of nostalgia?
It doesn't just make you miss old clothes. It makes you miss old people.
Specifically, people you should really never call again.
---
We were halfway through a round of drinks when it happened.
Robin was telling a story about a co-anchor who'd mispronounced "Iraq" so badly it sounded like a new curse word. Lily and Marshall were laughing. Barney was at the bar, working on his nightly Guinness World Record attempt for "most numbers gotten, least women remembered."
And I… drifted.
In my mind, the bar blurred and shifted. MacLaren's became a college hangout. The lighting went a little harsher, the music a little worse. The people around me became versions of people I used to know.
And sitting across from me, in my memory, was a face I hadn't thought about in years.
Big eyes. Dark hair. A quick, crooked smile.
"Natalie," I said out loud.
The table went quiet.
"Who?" Robin asked.
I blinked, snapping back.
"Uh—nobody," I said. "Just… someone I dated in college."
"Ah, here we go," Nox said. "The shirt has unlocked an ex. This is worse than I thought."
"Tell us," Lily said, eyes lighting up. "We love ex stories."
"Yeah," Marshall said. "Didn't you date, like, a string of art majors who all thought you were 'too emotionally available'?"
"This was different," I said. "Natalie was… nice. She was sweet, funny, smart. We dated for like, a year."
"So what happened?" Robin asked.
I shifted in my seat.
"Well," I said, "I… broke up with her."
"Why?" Lily asked.
I shrugged helplessly.
"I don't know," I said. "I panicked. I was twenty. We'd been together for a while, everyone was talking about where things would go, and I just… freaked out. I thought I wanted more… freedom."
"Translation," Nox said. "He got bored and stupid."
Marshall winced.
"Dude," he said. "You dumped Natalie. She was awesome. She used to bring us cookies for no reason."
"Yes," Lily said. "What kind of monster dumps the cookie girl?"
"What did you say to her?" Robin asked.
I coughed.
"Uh… nothing," I said. "I left a message on her answering machine."
Silence.
"Hold on," Robin said slowly. "You broke up with her… over voicemail?"
"It was a different time," I said weakly. "We didn't have, you know, texting etiquette figured out."
"It was cowardly then too," Nox said. "You can't retroactively blame the decade."
Lily's jaw dropped.
"Ted," she said, horrified. "You voicemail-dumped a nice girl who made cookies?"
"And," Marshall added, wincing harder, "you did it on her birthday."
The table erupted.
"Oh my God!" Lily slapped my arm. "On her birthday?!"
"Dude," Robin said, eyes wide. "What is wrong with you?"
"I didn't realize until after," I protested. "I lost track of the date! And then it was too late to undo it and—"
"No, no, no," Robin said, holding up a hand. "There is no time travel clause for emotional war crimes. You are the villain in that story."
"I know!" I said. "I know. I've felt guilty about it ever since."
Nox watched me for a long moment.
"You thinking what I think you're thinking?" he asked.
"No," I said immediately.
"You are," he said. "You absolutely are."
"What?" Lily demanded. "What is he thinking?"
I stared into my drink.
"Do you think it's too late to call and… apologize?" I said quietly.
Marshall made a tiny strangled noise.
"You haven't spoken to her in… what, seven years?" he said. "And now, because you put on a shirt, you want to reopen that vault?"
"It's not about the shirt," I said, even though it was.
"It's definitely about the shirt," Nox said. "This is textbook."
Robin chewed her lip.
"Okay," she said slowly. "Wait. Let's consider this. On one hand, apologizing is mature. On the other hand… are you sure you're not doing this because you're lonely and nostalgic and looking backwards instead of forwards?"
"Yes," Lily said. "That. That thing. That's exactly it."
I thought about it.
Was I lonely? Yes.
Nostalgic? Absolutely.
Bored? …Also yes.
But under all that, there was this little knot of guilt that had sat in my stomach for years. Whenever I thought of Natalie, it tightened.
"I hurt her," I said. "And I never made it right. I feel like I should at least… say sorry."
"I mean," Robin said gently, "that's fair. As long as you're honest with yourself about what you want."
"Apology," I said. "Closure. That's it."
Nox snorted.
"Yeah, sure," he said. "It has nothing to do with the fact that your life is a mess and you've convinced yourself that maybe your emotional salvation is hiding in 2002."
"You're not helping," I told him.
"I'm not supposed to help," he said. "I'm supposed to keep you from lying to yourself so badly you end up proposing to someone because you both like the same band or something."
"That's oddly specific," Marshall said.
Nox shrugged. "Patterns."
Lily leaned forward, eyes bright.
"I say call her," she said. "Apologize. See what happens. Maybe she's moved on, maybe she hangs up, maybe she's secretly forgiven you and living her best life married to some Pilates instructor."
Robin nodded.
"I agree—with a caveat," she said. "No pretending this is just an apology if you secretly want to get back together. That's not fair to her."
I held up my hand.
"I swear," I said. "This is about closure. Not romance."
Future Me cleared his throat loudly.
Kids, to be very clear: That was a lie.
I might have believed it at the time, but somewhere under the apologies and the guilt was a small, stupid hope:
What if she forgave me?
What if she still liked me?
What if the shirt still worked?
---
I pulled my phone out.
My hand was actually shaking.
"Are you really doing this?" Marshall asked.
"I'm really doing this," I said.
Nox watched me over the rim of his glass.
"At least don't voicemail her again," he said. "If this woman survives two recorded breakups from you, she deserves stock in Nyx Co."
"I'm not breaking up with her," I hissed. "I'm apologizing."
I scrolled, heart pounding, until I found the old number in my contacts. It was still there, buried under years of new names.
"Natalie – Home."
I hit call before I could chicken out.
The phone rang.
Once. Twice. Three times.
I felt the entire table watching me.
Then:
"Hello?"
Her voice was a little deeper, a little steadier. But it was her.
My throat closed.
"Hi," I said. "Um. Hi. Natalie? It's, uh… it's Ted. Ted Mosby."
There was a pause.
"Oh," she said. "Wow. Ted. Hi. It's been… a while."
"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, it has. How are you?"
"Good," she said. "I'm… good. You?"
"I'm okay," I said, which was not entirely true, but close enough.
There was a small, awkward silence.
At the table, Lily squeezed Marshall's arm. Nox tapped his fingers on the wood, counting beats.
"So," Natalie said. "What's up?"
I swallowed.
"I, uh…" I glanced at Robin, who gave me a tiny nod. "I've been thinking about… the last time we talked. Or, well, didn't really talk. The message I left."
"Oh," she said slowly. "That."
"Yeah," I said. "That. I just—I've felt bad about it for a long time. It was… cowardly. And selfish. And it was your birthday, which makes me king of the jerks. I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. Really. You didn't deserve that."
There was a pause.
A long one.
I stared at the condensation on my glass, heart hammering.
Then she laughed.
Not the light, happy laugh I remembered. A sharper one.
"Took you long enough," she said.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm… slow, sometimes."
"Sometimes?" Nox mouthed across the table.
"It did suck," Natalie said. "A lot. I was pretty wrecked for a while. Turning twenty and getting dumped on voicemail by a guy who couldn't even be bothered to show up? Not my favorite birthday."
"I know," I said. "I'm really, really sorry."
There was a softer exhale on the line.
"Thank you," she said. "I… appreciate the apology. Really."
Something loosened inside me.
"So, uh," I said, nervousness flipping into something lighter, "what are you up to these days?"
And just like that, we slipped into small talk.
She was working. Living in the city now. Had a new job she liked. Friends. Hobbies. The pieces of a life that no longer had a Ted-shaped hole at the center, if it ever did.
I laughed at her jokes. She laughed at some of mine. It felt… easy. Familiar.
Too familiar.
"And you?" she asked finally. "Still in New York?"
"Yeah," I said. "Still here. Still an architect. Still… me."
"Well," she said, "despite how things ended, I am glad you're doing okay."
There was a beat.
And then the part of my brain that always ruins everything chimed in.
"Hey," I heard myself say, "would you maybe want to… grab dinner sometime? Catch up properly?"
Across from me, Nox closed his eyes.
Lily slapped a hand over her mouth. Marshall whispered, "Oh no."
There was another pause on the line.
"You want to have dinner?" Natalie repeated.
"Yeah," I said, heart pounding. "As friends. Or… not. I don't know. Just to talk. Make up for… the world's worst voicemail."
She was quiet so long I thought the call had dropped.
Then she sighed.
"You know what?" she said. "Okay. Sure. Dinner. It might be… interesting to see you again."
Relief and panic collided in my chest.
"Great," I said. "Yeah. Great. When are you free?"
"Well," she said, "my birthday's coming up next week."
Every person at the table winced at once.
"No," Lily whispered.
"Don't," Nox mouthed. "Do not."
"So," Natalie continued, "how about then?"
My brain screamed ABORT, but my mouth said:
"Yeah. Let's do that."
We sorted out the details. Time. Restaurant. I promised I'd call and confirm.
When we hung up, I stared at my phone in disbelief.
Lily broke the silence.
"You did not," she said.
"You absolute lunatic," Nox said. "You just scheduled a makeup birthday dinner with the girl you already broke up with on a different birthday."
"It's not a breakup this time," I said weakly. "It's just dinner."
"For now," he said. "But I know you. You're already building a fantasy in your head where she forgives you, you reconnect, everything is magical, and we're all invited to the wedding where you play your own slideshow."
"I am not," I said.
Future Me coughed.
Kids, I absolutely was.
Robin studied my face.
"Are you… sure about this, Ted?" she asked. "Really sure? It's… a lot."
I looked down at my green shirt. At the way it settled around my shoulders, familiar and ill-fitting all at once.
"I think I have to try," I said.
Nox leaned back, rubbing his temples.
"Okay," he said. "Fine. But I'm coming with you to pick out your outfit for this dinner. Because if you show up in that shirt, she has every right to sue you."
I frowned.
"What's wrong with the shirt?" I asked.
"It's cursed," he said. "And I refuse to be an accessory to emotional homicide."
---
Kids, that's how I ended up agreeing to meet my ex-girlfriend for dinner on her birthday.
The first time, I was young and stupid and afraid of commitment.
The second time… I was older, slightly less stupid, and afraid of regret.
Turns out, both are terrible reasons to call someone on their birthday.
Kids, there are a few things you should never do twice.
Touch a hot stove.
Trust a landlord who says "no roaches."
And most of all?
Dump the same woman on her birthday. Twice.
---
The week went by faster than I wanted it to.
I kept telling myself I was calm. Mature. In control.
I was not.
"Okay," Nox said, standing in my bedroom doorway, arms folded. "Walk me through the plan again. Like I'm a concerned adult and you're not."
I stood in front of the mirror, holding two shirts.
"I meet Natalie at the restaurant," I said. "We have dinner. We talk. I apologize again in person. Maybe… we see if there's still something there."
Nox pointed at me with the precision of a firing squad.
"See," he said, "that last part is where you lose me. You've taken a good, clean apology arc and stapled romance onto it."
"I liked her," I said. "A lot. We had great chemistry."
"You had macaroni and regret," he said. "You were twenty. You were dating like the world was an elective."
I looked between the shirt in my left hand (blue, button-down, safe) and the one in my right (the green shirt, traitorous siren of nostalgia).
Nox followed my gaze, then stepped forward and plucked the green shirt out of my hand like it was a lit cigarette.
"No," he said. "Absolutely not."
"It's my lucky shirt," I protested weakly.
"It's your dumb shirt," he said. "You want a second chance at emotional maturity and you're reaching for the exact same costume you wore the first time you screwed it up? No. Hard no."
He tossed it onto the bed and held up the blue one instead.
"This," he said. "You wear this. Normal, present-day Ted. Not College Flashback Ted. Not 'maybe I peaked sophomore year' Ted. Just… you. Now."
I looked at the blue shirt.
It was simple. Clean. Newer. No history.
"So, boring," I said.
"So honest," he countered. "Lucky shirts are for poker nights and job interviews. If you're going to ask for forgiveness—and maybe more—show up as who you actually are, not who you wish you remembered being."
I sighed.
"Since when are you my therapist?" I asked.
"Since I watched you throw three parties for a woman who explicitly said she didn't want a relationship," he said. "This is the intervention arc."
I glanced at the clock.
"I need to go," I said. "It's almost seven."
He nodded.
"Okay," he said. "Final rules: don't lie, don't overpromise, don't propose. And for the love of God, don't break up with her on her birthday."
"I'm not breaking up with her," I insisted. "We're just… seeing what happens."
"Right," he said. "Because nothing says 'healthy intentions' like 'seeing what happens' with a woman you publicly voicemail-assassinated in your early twenties."
I hesitated at the door.
"Hey," I said. "You think I'm doing the wrong thing?"
He looked at me for a long beat, the sarcasm dialing down just a notch.
"I think you're lonely," he said. "And guilty. That's a dangerous combo. But… sometimes people need to walk into the wall themselves before they start respecting doorways."
"That's… bleak," I said.
"It's realistic," he said. "Just… don't drag her through your crisis without telling her she's in it. Okay?"
I nodded, throat tight.
"Yeah," I said. "Okay."
"Good," he said. "Now go. Try not to traumatize anyone."
---
The restaurant was one of those places that tried very hard not to look like it was trying.
Exposed brick, mismatched chairs, soft lighting. Half-hipster, half-date-night. The kind of place that makes you feel like you're impressing someone even if you ordered the cheapest thing on the menu.
Natalie was already there.
She stood when she saw me, smile a little hesitant but real.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey," I echoed.
Up close, the changes were more obvious. Her hair was a little shorter. Her style more grown-up. She carried herself like someone who'd actually read those "boundaries" articles everyone pretends to understand.
But there were still the same eyes. Same crooked smile. Same way she tilted her head when she was really listening.
"You look good," she said, giving me a quick once-over. "Different. But good."
"Oh," I said, glancing down at my perfectly serviceable, thoroughly unmagical blue shirt. "Yeah. You too. You look… great."
We sat.
Menus. Water. Background music murmuring.
For a minute, it was awkward. Then we started talking, and it wasn't.
We talked about college. Jobs. Friends we'd lost touch with. Mistakes we'd made. Times we were sure we knew everything and absolutely did not.
I laughed. She laughed. It felt like slipping on an old jacket that still mostly fit.
Kids, that's the trap of nostalgia: it doesn't tell you what's different. It just highlights what stayed the same.
---
"You remember that time you got locked out of your dorm in your towel?" she asked, grinning.
"That was not my fault," I said. "Marshall closed the door."
"Because you yelled 'don't worry, I've got my keys!'" she reminded me.
"I thought I did!"
"You did not," she said. "You had a spoon. In your hand. You looked at a spoon and thought, 'this will get me back inside.'"
"I was under a lot of stress," I said.
She laughed again, softer this time.
"I missed this," she said.
Something in my chest warmed.
"Yeah?" I asked carefully.
"Yeah," she said. "We had fun. You were… good to me. Until, you know, you weren't."
Guilt pricked again.
"I really am sorry," I said quietly. "For that. I was a coward."
"You were a kid," she said. "A selfish, emotionally stunted kid. But… I was a kid too. We both were."
She took a sip of wine.
"I'm not saying it was okay," she added. "But I am saying… I don't think about it every day anymore."
"Low bar," I said.
"Baby steps," she smiled.
---
Dinner came.
We ate. We joked. Stories built on old stories, old inside jokes nested within new ones.
And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought started curdling in my stomach.
I like her.
I care about her.
But… I don't feel it.
Not the way I thought I would. Not the way my nostalgia had promised.
There was affection. Warmth. Comfort.
But not the dizzy, stupid, heart-in-your-throat feeling I'd half expected to come roaring back like a movie sequel.
I looked at her. At the way she talked with her hands, wiped her lip with her thumb when she got sauce on it. At the way she listened with her whole face.
And my heart whispered, too quietly to ignore:
This isn't it.
Not for you. Not anymore.
---
Kids, that should've been the moment I changed course.
I should have listened to that voice. I should have told her the truth—that I cared, that I was grateful, that I didn't want to do more damage by pretending I felt something I didn't.
Instead… I did what your old man does best.
I doubled down on the worst possible option.
"So," she said, twirling her fork, "what about you? Still dating around? Any big romances I should know about?"
I thought about Robin. About parties. About blue French horns and rain that hadn't fallen yet.
"Not really," I said. "Few flings. Nothing… lasting."
She nodded slowly.
"Yeah," she said. "Same, for a while. I had a long thing that ended last year. Took a bit to recover."
She looked up at me, eyes more serious now.
"I'm not gonna lie," she said. "When you called… I was surprised. But part of me wondered if maybe… we were getting a second shot."
There it was.
The moment.
I forced a smile.
"Yeah," I said. "I… wondered that too."
Future Me groaned so hard he probably scared birds in another timeline.
Kids, that was the second lie.
And lies like that? They compound.
---
Back at MacLaren's, a few hours and a couple drinks later, the gang sat in the booth waiting for the post-date debrief.
Nox was tracing a condensation ring on the table with his finger.
"You think he'll blow it?" Barney asked.
"He's not going to 'blow it,'" Lily said. "He's just… emotionally fragile."
"He's nostalgic," Nox said. "That's worse."
Marshall frowned.
"Nostalgia isn't bad," he said. "I love nostalgia."
"Nostalgia's fine," Nox said. "But when you start treating your past like it's a menu instead of a memory? That's when you start reordering old disasters like they're comfort food."
Lily considered that.
"Okay, that was good," she admitted. "Write that down."
"On it," Nox said, pretending to take a note on a napkin.
The bar door opened.
I walked in.
They all turned.
"Well?" Lily demanded. "How was it?"
"It was…" I slid into the booth, suddenly exhausted. "It was good. Really good, actually. We talked, we laughed, we caught up."
"That's great!" Marshall said. "Dude, that's great. Maybe this is your big second chance."
I swallowed.
"Yeah," I said. "Maybe."
Nox watched my face carefully.
"Do you want it to be?" he asked quietly.
I hesitated just a fraction too long.
"I mean… yeah," I said. "Why not? We had something once. Maybe we can have it again."
Barney clinked his glass against mine.
"To second chances!" he said.
"To not screwing up your apology by sleeping with her and then disappearing again," Lily added.
"Solid toast," Nox said.
Robin slid back into the booth with a fresh drink.
"How'd it go?" she asked.
"Good," I said. "We're… we're gonna see each other again. Officially. We're, uh… dating."
The word felt weird in my mouth. Not entirely wrong. Just… misaligned.
Robin's expression flickered for the briefest moment. Something passed through her eyes—surprise, maybe disappointment, maybe something else—before she smoothed it away.
"That's… great," she said. "I'm happy for you."
"Yeah," I said. "Me too."
Nox leaned over.
"Can I talk to you for a sec?" he asked.
---
We ended up at the bar, away from the booth, the hum of conversation wrapping around us like static.
"You're not happy," Nox said quietly. "Not really."
"I am," I insisted. "It went well. She forgave me. We're giving it another shot. It's… good."
He stared at me, unimpressed.
"Ted," he said. "You're talking like someone reading off a brochure. Do you actually want to be with her, or do you want to not feel like the guy who broke her heart on her birthday?"
"I like her," I said. "She's great. Smart. Funny. Kind. We get along. Why wouldn't I want to be with her?"
"That's not an answer," he said. "That's a list of adjectives."
I rubbed my face.
"I just… I don't want to mess this up again," I said. "She deserves someone who shows up."
"Yes," he said. "She does. Question is: are you that someone, or are you just borrowing the role because you're scared of being the bad guy twice?"
I swallowed.
"I don't know," I admitted.
He sighed.
"Then figure it out," he said. "Soon. Before you drag her past the point of no return again. You owe her at least that."
"I will," I said. "I promise."
Future Me sighed.
Kids, remember this: Promises mean nothing if you make them to avoid pain instead of to tell the truth.
---
The week leading up to our next date was weirdly normal.
We saw each other a couple times. Coffee. A movie. A walk through the park.
It was nice.
Nice is dangerous.
Nice lulls you into thinking "nice" is enough.
She laughed at my jokes. I laughed at hers. We kissed. It was good. Comfortable. Familiar.
And still, that quiet voice kept whispering:
This isn't it.
I kept ignoring it.
Until her birthday.
---
We were back at a restaurant—different place, same vibe. Romance-by-interior-design.
Natalie looked beautiful. She'd done her hair, wore a soft dress, earrings catching the light when she turned her head.
"I'm glad you called," she said at one point, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "I didn't realize how much I'd missed you."
I squeezed back.
"Yeah," I said. "Same."
Did I mean it?
Part of me did.
Another part was busy trying to figure out how to get out of this without setting the entire emotional block on fire.
Because at some point between the salad and the main course, something had clicked into awful clarity:
I wasn't in love with Natalie.
Not now. Maybe not ever the way I thought I had been.
I cared about her. I liked her. I wanted her to be happy.
Just… not with me.
I knew what I had to do.
I had to tell her. Soon. That night. Cleanly.
I looked at her across the table, steeling myself to speak.
And then the lights dimmed.
The staff emerged from the kitchen, carrying a cake with candles blazing, singing an off-key version of "Happy Birthday."
They set it down in front of her.
She laughed, delighted, cheeks pink.
"Ted," she said. "You remembered."
And that…
That was when I realized something truly horrific:
I hadn't.
I'd completely forgotten it was her birthday.
Again.
The room spun just a little.
"Of course," I lied. "I mean, how could I forget?"
Future Me just put his face in his hands.
Kids, if you ever find yourself lying about something that hurt someone deeply once already? That's the universe screaming at you. I did not listen.
---
She blew out the candles.
I clapped. People clapped. The waiter put the cake down and left us alone again.
She looked at me with so much hope it almost hurt to meet her eyes.
"You know," she said softly, "this feels… really right. Like maybe we needed the time apart to grow up a little."
"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "Maybe we did."
Do it, I thought. Tell her now. Before it gets any deeper. Before the cake gets cut. Before you are irredeemable.
My mouth opened.
"Nat—"
"Remember how we used to talk about the future?" she interrupted, eyes shining. "About apartments, and maybe a dog, and me not letting you decorate because you'd put up those awful architecture posters?"
I laughed weakly.
"Yeah," I said. "I remember."
"I used to be so mad at you for the way you ended things," she said. "But lately I've been thinking… maybe things almost work out all the time for a reason. Maybe we're meant to grow into the right version of ourselves first. And now… here we are."
She squeezed my hand again.
"I feel like we're getting a second chance," she said. "And I really want to take it."
And there it was.
The hammer.
I could not lie my way around that.
"Natalie," I said slowly. "I… need to tell you something."
Her smile faltered, just slightly.
"Okay," she said. "What's wrong?"
I took a breath.
"I like you," I said. "I really do. You're… great. And being with you again has reminded me of how stupid I was to hurt you the way I did."
"Okay," she said carefully.
"But," I forced myself to continue, "I don't… feel the way I should. Not for this. Not for what you deserve. Not… enough."
Silence.
Her hand slipped out of mine.
"What?" she asked, voice flat.
"I thought—" I swallowed. "I thought maybe if we tried again, the old feelings would come back. That I'd realize I was crazy to ever let you go. But instead, all I feel is… guilt. And pressure. And this voice in my head saying you want more than I can honestly give you."
She stared at me, color draining from her face.
"So let me get this straight," she said, very quietly. "You hunted me down after years. You called me. You apologized. You charmed your way back into my life. You let me think we were building something again."
Her voice was shaking now.
"And now, on my birthday, while I'm sitting in front of a cake you didn't even remember to order, you're telling me… you don't love me?"
The word hit like a punch.
"No, I—" I started.
"You don't, Ted," she said. "You just said it. You don't feel it. Not enough. Whatever that means."
She laughed once, humorless.
"This is worse," she said. "You know that, right? This is worse than the voicemail. At least back then, I could tell myself you were young and cowardly. Now you're older and still just as selfish."
Guilt flooded me.
"You're right," I said. "You're absolutely right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"To what?" she snapped. "To lead me on? To drag me back into hoping? To turn my birthday into a sequel to my worst breakup?"
I had no defense.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "I know that doesn't fix anything, but—"
"No," she said, cutting me off. "It doesn't."
She stood.
"For what it's worth," she said, voice low and shaking, "I believe you when you say you didn't mean to hurt me. But that doesn't change the fact that you did. Again."
She grabbed her purse, blinked hard a couple times like she refused to let me see her cry.
"Goodbye, Ted," she said.
And then she left.
The cake sat between us, candles long dead.
I'd done it again.
On her birthday.
---
Kids, sometimes growth isn't a smooth upward line.
Sometimes it's falling into the same hole twice, realizing you never learned to walk around it.
That night, I finally admitted something important:
An apology means nothing if you don't change the behavior that made it necessary.
---
MacLaren's was quieter when I stumbled in later, coat over my arm, guilt all over my face.
The gang looked up.
Robin's expression fell immediately.
"Oh no," she said. "What happened?"
I slid into the booth like someone had disconnected my bones.
"I broke up with her," I said. "On her birthday."
Lily gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
"Again?!" she said. "Ted!"
"It wasn't on purpose," I said. "I mean, I didn't remember it was her birthday until the cake came out and by then I already knew I couldn't lie to her anymore and—"
I buried my face in my hands.
"I'm the bad guy," I groaned. "I am the villain in someone's origin story."
Marshall rubbed my back.
"Dude," he said. "I'm not gonna sugarcoat it. That's… rough."
"You think?" I said weakly.
Nox watched me, quieter than usual.
"You told her the truth?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "That I didn't feel what she deserved. That I cared about her but not enough for the future she wanted."
He nodded slowly.
"That part," he said, "was the right thing. Horrible timing, but right."
"Is there a version where I don't feel like human garbage?" I asked.
"Not tonight," he said.
Barney, of course, saw the one upside.
"Well," he said, "on the bright side, you're single. Again. And older. And more desperate. Women love that."
"Not now, Barney," Robin snapped.
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"She was so mad," I said. "And she was right. I shouldn't have called. I shouldn't have started this again if I wasn't sure."
Nox sighed.
"Look," he said. "You screwed up. Twice. Once as a coward, once as a misguided idealist trying to fix the past."
He held my gaze.
"But the second time, at least you told her the truth instead of pretending," he added. "Growth, in this case, just came with collateral damage."
"That's a terrible way to live," Lily said.
"It is," he agreed. "Which is why maybe we stop re-running Ted's Greatest Hits of Emotional Damage and start… I don't know… looking forward instead of backward."
Robin glanced at me.
"Maybe that's the point," she said softly. "You can't build a future out of nostalgia. It's… never as good as you remember."
"Yeah," I said quietly. "I think I get that now."
Future Me smiled sadly.
Kids, they were right.
You can revisit old places, old songs, old sweaters. But you can't force them to make you feel the same way they did before.
Because the thing that changed wasn't the shirt.
It was me.
---
Later that night, after everyone else had drifted out, Nox and I walked back to the apartment together.
The city hummed around us, yellow cabs and streetlights and the occasional siren filling the spaces between our footsteps.
After a while, he spoke.
"You know she'll probably hate you for a long time," he said.
"I know," I said.
"And she'll be right to," he added.
"I know," I repeated.
"But," he said, "one day she'll tell this story to someone, and it'll be a cautionary tale. And maybe they'll avoid making the same mistake. Maybe you'll have contributed to the world's emotional education."
I gave him a look.
"Is this supposed to make me feel better?" I asked.
"Not really," he said. "But on a long enough timeline, everything turns into a story. At least try to learn from this one."
We crossed the street.
"Burn the green shirt," he added.
I managed a small laugh.
"That bad?" I asked.
"It's cursed," he said. "You're not sentimental about landmines."
I thought about that for a moment.
"Yeah," I said. "Okay. Tomorrow, we burn the shirt."
He nodded.
"Good," he said. "I'll bring marshmallows. If you're going to incinerate bad decisions, might as well get snacks out of it."
Future Me chuckled.
Kids, I didn't actually burn the shirt. I stuffed it in the back of my closet again.
But I never wore it after that.
Because some things don't get a second comeback.
And as for me and Natalie…
That chapter was closed. For real this time.
The trick, from there on, was figuring out how to stop reading the same old pages and finally turn to the next one.