Anachronism (.noun)

Sixteen seconds.

I only need sixteen seconds to get my message to her.

“NORA!” I yell.

“Peter? But—”

I can see your gears turning as you try to figure out this moment.

You turn, looking at the me in front of you and the me behind you.

My God, you’re beautiful. Those eyes, like topaz gemstones. Deep. Rich. Full of light and love and surprise and confusion. Your raven black hair shimmers and gleams, consuming all color around you like a black hole. Fitting and almost ironic.

Why did I not look at you more often?

I reach my hand out to you. All I can think about is the time I have left. There are about eighty-five billion neurons in our brains. Roughly one-third of those neurons are located in our cortex.

You taught me that, remember?

These neurons are dedicated to the sole purpose of intricate, purpose-driven thought. Eighty-five billion neurons, yet the quantified speed of thought is only ten bits per second…

All this really means I have only four to ten complex thoughts remaining, and I’ve wasted three of them. So, truthfully, I’m down to about ten seconds.

Do you remember when we first met?

I was late to class, which wasn’t unusual. It was the last year of my undergrad at CalTech. I already had the credits; MIT had approved my application for grad school earlier that spring.

The class was PH136: Intro to Elementary Particle Physics. Professor Tyesdale. A brilliant teacher. One of the foremost experts in the field of quantum mechanics but, damn, was he cantankerous. We used to joke that he’d been grading papers since the dinosaurs, and he was as cranky as a T-Rex with a toothache.

I walked into the classroom. At the front of the class, there you were. The star first-year graduate student and professor’s aide. Eleanor Fitzgerald. Talk of the campus among the STEM students.

Exemplary in every way I am. Perfect, in every way I am not.

“—backwards in time is theoretically possible under Einstein’s theory of relativity, but the power consumptions would be astronomical. You’d only have seconds to choose a place in time. Alternatively, moving forward in time would be much easier, thanks to time dilation fields. But, again, this is all theory.”

I took a seat in the back of the class. You locked eyes with me.

“Well, that’s class,” you said. I was later than I thought. “Make sure you all study the Alcubierre Drive and the effects of warp bubbles. I’m sure Professor Tyesdale will want to be able to hold a conversation with his class next week.”

Books shifted, bags sealed, and feet shuffled out the door.

“You must be Mr. Lyons. Peter, right?” you’d said. I must have been in shock when I realized you knew my name. I don’t even remember what I’d said but I remember you told me you knew my name because I was the only student you marked “ABSENT”.

Thought four. Eight more seconds.

I reach out for you, just a little further. I feel the tips of your fingers. The electricity in them makes the hair on my arms stand to attention.

Seven seconds.

I recall our first date. The café glowed softly in the evening light. I was seated, arriving early to try and impress you. Couldn’t be late twice.

I was sounding out names of French food as you walked in, your half-crescent grin shining like the moon.

“You made it,” I said.

“I learned not to miss important events.” you responded. You always teased. Our drinks arrived—I preordered, thinking it 'gentlemanly'. For you I ordered a latte. Mine, black coffee. You took your seat next to me.

“What, no sugar?” you asked. Those eyes. That smile.

“I didn’t need it tonight.”

A quiet pause. The warmth of your gaze, a slight head tilt, the unspoken this feels right.

You leaned in. “Tell me something real.”

I hesitated, but smiled. “I think I already like you.”

I felt your fingers tracing the lip of my coffee cup. Our fingers close, but not quite touching. “Good,” you said. “Because I already knew.” You took my cup from me, taking a sip. “By the way, I like my coffee black.” You pushed the latte in my direction.

Five seconds. I have two, possibly three, thoughts.

I want to think about our first kiss. My mind wanders to our first night together. How you told me you loved me as we hid beneath the sheets. I want to think about the time we spent walking in parks, debating theories, pitching ideas. About my graduation from MIT, about celebrating your doctorate. I want to think about the soft kisses, the dreams of our wedding, the children we could have shared.

Instead, I think about the warnings you gave me. How you tried to defend me from myself. How I chose instead to get caught up in my work. How I let Project Hermes, and thus this experiment, get in our way. I caused this.

“Peter, you need to let this go. A time machine defies physics. Some forces aren’t meant to be controlled.” You’d told me. I didn’t listen. In retrospect, it was pure pigheadedness.

But, Nora, I did it.

Four seconds. My hand clasps yours, and I know I can save you this time.

The answer was right there, in between Einstein’s field equations and Alcubierre’s metric. I was working in the lab as the machine powered up, gears whirring, lights flickering like trapped lightning. A deep, electric hum filled the air. I remember the light in my eyes as realization of my success dawned on me.

Space twisted—colors bled, time shattered. Sparks I didn’t account for bled from the machine.

Then, everything vanished.

Two seconds.

I'd been so engrossed in finding the solution to my work that I hadn’t noticed when you walked into the lab.

You reach for the bubble as I disappear. Outside time, I watch as the lab shrinks in on you. I step out of the bubble, trying to reach you before you walk into the lab.

“NORA!” I yell, both again and for the first time.

Sixteen seconds.

I only need sixteen seconds.