Chapter 2
The moment the light faded, I found myself standing near Seattle's bustling Pike Place Market. The familiar aroma of coffee hit me like a wave, street musicians' guitar melodies echoing in my ears. Everything felt so real, yet somehow terrifyingly wrong.
I checked my phone—February 15th, 2024, 10:47 AM. We actually made it back eight months.
Phoenix was standing just a few steps away, looking disoriented as he glanced around.
"Hey," I approached him tentatively, "you okay?"
He turned to look at me, and there wasn't a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
"Sorry, I... I feel a bit dizzy," Phoenix frowned, "You are...?"
My heart nearly stopped. 'He really doesn't know me. Our relationship—it never existed in this timeline.'
"I'm Luna," I forced my voice to sound natural, "We just... you looked like you weren't feeling well."
"Thanks for your concern, but I'm fine." Phoenix smiled politely—that same smile I remembered from when we first met. "I should go. My friend's waiting for me."
He turned and walked away without looking back. I stood there frozen, watching his figure disappear into the crowd.
'In this timeline, I'm just a stranger to him. So what... what am I even doing here?'
I pulled out my wallet. My ID still said Luna Garcia, but when I checked my phone, all the photos of Phoenix and me had vanished. He wasn't in my friend list either.
Worse yet, my Instagram showed I'd never worked in Seattle—my latest location was still Los Angeles.
'Shit. I have no life here, no job, no connection to this city.'
At 2 PM, I followed Phoenix to a contemporary art gallery downtown.
They were hosting an opening reception for a photography exhibition. The place was filled with well-dressed art world types holding champagne glasses, elegantly discussing the pieces.
I hid in a corner and watched Phoenix in that gray suit I'd seen him wear countless times, talking to a redhead.
Vivian.
She was even more beautiful than in the photos, radiating that confidence that comes from elite education. She wore a black off-shoulder dress and was studying the photography on the walls with genuine interest.
"This piece has interesting composition," Phoenix approached her, his voice carrying that intellectual charm I once knew so well. "The photographer uses light and shadow to create this illusion of frozen time."
Vivian turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling with interest.
"You know a lot about photography?"
Phoenix smiled—that confident smile that reminded me of when he first explained art theory to me.
"I'm more interested in the viewer's response," he said. "You know what? True art isn't on the canvas—it's in the observer's eyes. The way you look at me makes me feel like I've become art myself."
It felt as if the air had been sucked from my lungs, leaving only a hollow ache.
'That line... I taught him that.'
I remembered clearly—it was a spring evening last year in our apartment, discussing how to connect with artsy girls. I'd told him: "Girls love being compared to art. It makes them feel special."
And now he was using that exact line on Vivian.
Vivian was clearly charmed, a sweet smile spreading across her face.
"Phoenix, you always know exactly what to say," she laughed softly. "That's such an enviable talent."
"Because you deserve the most beautiful words in the world," Phoenix looked at her with those deep, soulful eyes.
I felt sick to my stomach. That line was mine too. I'd taught him to make women feel like they were one of a kind.
They continued wandering through the gallery, and I followed at a distance, listening to Phoenix deliver every single technique I'd ever taught him. The way to discuss art, how to create seemingly accidental encounters, even his body language—it was all identical.
'He's like a perfect copying machine, using everything I taught him to conquer someone else.'
At dusk, Phoenix led Vivian to the gallery's back courtyard. It had been set up as an intimate space with warm string lights and small tables and chairs.
"This is beautiful," Vivian said with delight. "How did you know about this place?"
"I scouted it earlier, wanted to surprise you," Phoenix pulled out a small gift box from his pocket. "This isn't expensive jewelry, but it captures every important moment since we've known each other."
Vivian opened the box to find a handmade mini photo album.
"These photos... you kept them all?" She flipped through the album, tears of emotion glistening in her eyes.
"It's not about the photos—it's about the feeling of creating these memories with you," Phoenix gently touched her cheek. "Every moment with you makes time feel precious."
I crouched behind the bushes, my hands clenched into fists.
'Even this handmade album idea was mine. I spent an entire weekend teaching him how to make it, telling him that girls are most moved not by expensive gifts, but by thoughtful surprises.'
Vivian was already crying from being so touched. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss Phoenix. Under the warm lights, they embraced like the perfect ending to a fairy tale.
And I could only hide in the darkness, watching all the love wisdom I'd shared being used to create someone else's happiness.
'I taught him how to love, but I was never truly loved by him.'
In that moment, I completely understood what it meant to feel dead inside. This hurt worse than discovering his time device because I was witnessing my true place in his heart—I was just a technique instructor, an emotional coach, a disposable substitute.
I turned to leave this suffocating place, but then I heard a familiar sound from around the corner.
Click. Click. Click.
That rhythm of continuous shooting made my heart race instantly. I followed the sound and saw a tall figure in the shadows of the gallery corner, focusing intently through his camera lens, photographing the night street scene.
That silhouette, that focused expression, those long, elegant fingers...
Damian?
