FICTION

The Beginning of the End

The one chance I can’t take

This is the second episode. The first part is here and also linked below.

“Let’s go on a trip this weekend.”

“Where?”

“There’s a place on the perimeter of the eastern part of the protected zone, where you can rent a spot. It’s right by one of the last remaining beaches.”

We’re seated on the same side of the table, our knees touching. I accidentally kick my bag and realize that my phone’s still inside.

We’re back at the same diner where we began. I’m a creature of habit, and since Morgan doesn’t mind, we come here once a week. Our actions are rhythmic at this point, an unspoken, sweet melody. It’s our normal.

It feels like love. One that can be found in beautiful beginnings.

We chose the all-access pack and shared everything with each other that we wanted to be known. There was no point in hiding now, was there?

It’s hard to believe how awkward our first date was after being matched. The app knew what it was doing — if I may say so myself. It gave us three months, based on all the data it analyzed, and it was the longest either of us had ever gotten. I was scared then, but I was very sure of things now.

“I want to celebrate our end.”

Morgan shifts their demeanor to uncomfortable in a split second. And when they pinch the bridge of their nose, I know where we’re headed.

In our time together, we’ve had the one fight — over and over again.

“I can’t do that, Clara. I don’t want us to end.”

I’d visualized every little detail of our trip. The beach where the ash had settled like sand. The prohibited books we’d read. Final moments exchanged, without tearful goodbyes but rather in glorious reminiscence.

In the early hours of dawn, it looked like snow. And Morgan liked that.

What I hadn’t anticipated was their reluctance. The system was simple, though. If we violate the rules of the app, they ban us from all dating programs for two years. And I knew in my head where that would lead.

“We could read that book you tracked down,” I said, feigning lightness.

“Metamorphosis? That’s not a beachside read. But maybe you’d like it.”

The food came, and our conversation halted. One reason I loved this little joint in the middle of nowhere was its penchant for greasy vintage food.

Morgan started picking off the slices of meat and placing them in orderly stacks. Seconds later, a side dish, extra tissues, and sauce slid my way.

If I did something just once, it would be sealed in their memory forever. What I liked, what I didn’t. The weird joke I’d made two weeks ago and felt conscious about. Morgan would repeat it to me like a charming callback.

“Don’t you think we’ll regret it, not taking a chance?”

“I’d rather you regret me, hate me, even. What I can’t have is you resenting me for ruining your life. So much so that you can’t stand the sight of me.”

“And that’s a given, is it?”

Morgan's place was like a museum. When we started dating, I was afraid to show my piles of old books, because most people considered that weird.

It was an inside joke now.

The oldest item, however, was my copy of Pride and Prejudice. I never took it back, because I spent most of my time here, anyway. The pantry was stocked with my choicest snacks. I knew the record collection by heart.

Three hundred years of human history in relics. A future we didn’t deserve.

“Explain it to me again,” Morgan asked, while handing me some fizzy water.

“We got to know each other and spent every available bit of time together. The reason we didn’t grow sick of it was because of the definite end.”

“All I know is, if I sit on this couch without you, I’d rather not be alive.”

I was at a loss for words. When it got to this part in the thousands of romantic stories I’d written, I weaved in a brutal end. Villainized the characters. Even the rare hopeful ones were touched by tragedy.

I wanted every day to be new. Choose each other because we want to be with each other. And I knew firsthand what it meant for it to be otherwise.

Hatred. Boredom. Anger. Betrayal.

“I told you, I’m not that girl. I warned you on our first date.”

“You did. But neither you, nor I, could foresee who we’d become.”

I was about to offer a weak argument when a burst of air raid sirens filled the room. It was too loud to talk over and the only thing one could do for the duration was sit tight. It used to unnerve me terribly, before.

I traced the insides of Morgan's palm to ground myself.

Looking outside our tiny window, I spotted flecks of ash floating brightly below the umbrella of street lights before beginning their final descent.

Predictable, as always.

We were both Opters and knew about the constant state of war we were in. The daily updates, the death toll, and the threats that loomed behind every corner should have made us sick, but instead, I was bolder than ever.

In most matters, that is. In love, I liked to be in control. Always.

“Do you know what it felt like to meet you?”

“Like being struck by lightning?” I’d heard that a thousand times before.

“It was like the record, the one I’d played you the first time you stayed over. Wish You Were Here starts with this slow radio static, and most wonder if it’s stuck, but few know that they should wait — for the enchantment.”

My mind went blank. Like I had been zapped with electricity and all my thoughts had vanished. And there were usually a million a minute.

I liked being alone, and keeping everyone at arm's length was my modus operandi. If you don’t let someone in, then they can’t hurt you. Just like many had done before. I’d decided to lock them in a vault and move on.

What have I done now?

“I don’t want to argue anymore.”

“I’ll go on the trip. Whatever you want. But I can’t celebrate our end.”

Morgan went to bed early. Their job involved crunching numbers for hours on end and making the data look a certain way, as asked by those above.

I sat down to write. I was part of an interesting project, where we compared different predictions of the future to the present. We’d started over many times, so it was difficult to keep track. It was dark and funny.

But, I couldn’t type. It was as if someone was holding a fork where my brain connected to my spine. I was minutes away from a panic attack.

I rang the one person who would understand, my college roommate Martha, the one who ran the app. Even though it was my idea, she’d done most of the work. She knew the messy bits inside my head like no other.

“I was waiting for your call. For two weeks, actually.”

I unloaded my thoughts for half an hour, and she listened with patience.

“You know about the reset, right? We’ve been doing successful trials.”

I did, in fact. She educated me further on the third option. One where both parties consent to having their memories reset and it sends you right back to the beginning. Your beginning. And you could do it all over again.

Before I found out Morgan’s answer, I needed to settle on mine.

Here’s the previous episode, if you want to know more: