She was lying in bed, scrolling past photos of her ex—him smiling with someone new, her arm around his neck. The old Lena would have felt a dull ache, then moved on. But the new Lena reached for her phone.

Her friends noticed. “You’re so… much lately,” one said carefully. Another stopped inviting her to brunch. Her boss pulled her aside after she burst into tears over a spreadsheet—then, twenty minutes later, laughed maniacally at a typo.

Below it, a list. She’d expected the usual suspects: joy, trust, anticipation. But these were different.

And a prompt: “Turn to the feeling you want.”

Not to the app—to herself .

The bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, only to realize you can’t tell your past self.

She was on her floor. The room was the same. But something had shifted. She could feel the other timelines pressing against her skin—ghost lives, parallel selves, all whispering “You could have been me.”