Loop 2.
Month: November.
Status: Pyrrhic Victory.
Ethan Cross has successfully saved the girl.
She is sitting across from him at the Michelin-starred table, alive. Her chest rises and falls. Her heart beats at a steady 72 beats per minute. The Optune device is hidden under a stylish cashmere beanie he bought her in Paris (online, shipped overnight).
She is breathing.
So why does he feel like he's having dinner with a ghost?
"Is the salmon okay?" Violet asks. She's cutting the fish into tiny, surgical pieces. She hasn't taken a bite in four minutes.
"It's fine," Ethan says. "Do you like it?"
"I love it," she says quickly. Too quickly. "It's amazing, Ethan. Thank you. Again. For everything."
That word. Thank you.
In the last two weeks, since she took his hand in the park, she has said "thank you" approximately four hundred times.
Thank you for the ride.
Thank you for the medicine.
Thank you for paying the rent.
Thank you for saving my life.
It hangs between them like a sheet of bulletproof glass.
Ethan takes a sip of his wine. It tastes like vinegar.
This isn't Violet.
The Violet he fell in love with in Loop 0 threw a napkin at him because he was being pretentious. She argued about traffic cones. She hummed off-key and stole his coffee.
This Violet is... curated. Careful. Terrified of offending the billionaire who holds the lease on her lungs.
"You're not eating," Ethan observes.
Violet freezes. She immediately forks a piece of salmon into her mouth. She swallows it without chewing, wincing slightly.
"I am," she says brightly. "See? Delicious."
Ethan puts down his fork. The clatter echoes in the quiet dining room.
"Stop it."
Violet flinches. "Stop what? I'm just enjoying—"
"Stop acting like I'm your boss," Ethan says low. "Stop acting like you owe me rent on your existence. I hate it."
Violet puts the fork down slowly. Her hand trembles. Not from the tumor—that's stabilized for now—but from anxiety.
"You spent ten million dollars on me," she whispers, looking at the tablecloth. "Ethan... how am I supposed to act? You're not just a guy I met. You're... you're Atlas. holding up my sky."
"I don't want to be Atlas," Ethan says. "I just want to be Ethan."
"But you can't be just Ethan," she says sadly. She looks up, her eyes dull. The amber and gold spark is buried under layers of gratitude. "Because 'Just Ethan' wouldn't have kept me alive. So I have to love the hero, right? That's the script."
She smiles. It is a paper-thin smile. It rips him apart.
"I'm trying, Ethan. I promise. I'm trying to be the girl you remember. The one with the colors. But she's... she's heavy. It's hard to carry her."
Ethan looks at her.
He calculates the ROI of Loop 2.
Investment: $12 Million + Extreme Emotional Labor.
Return: A biological shell of the woman he loves, hollowed out by debt and fear.
It is a failed venture.
"Let's go," Ethan says, standing up. "I'm taking you home."
"But dessert..."
"We're skipping dessert. It's inefficient."
The car ride is silent.
It's raining again. November rain, cold and sleety.
Ethan drives the Audi. Safe. Quiet.
He looks at her in the passenger seat. She's staring out the window, tracing raindrops with her finger on the glass.
He wanted her alive. He got his wish. But in saving the vessel, he crushed the contents. She isn't living; she's performing survival for an audience of one.
The car lurches slightly as they hit a pothole.
Violet gasps, grabbing the handle.
"Sorry," Ethan says. "Road work."
"It's fine," she recites automatically. "You're a great driver."
Ethan grips the wheel until the leather groans. He wants to scream. He wants her to yell at him. He wants her to say 'You drive like a grandma, Shiny Shoes.'
Suddenly, Violet makes a sound.
It's not words. It's a noise in her throat. A wet, rattling catch.
Ethan looks over.
She has slumped forward against the dashboard.
"Violet?"
"Ethan," she mumbles. Her speech is slurred thick, like her tongue is too big for her mouth. "Left... side..."
"Numbness?"
"Gone," she groans. "Leg. Arm. Gone."
Ethan's heart hammers a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"Dr. Wells said the scans were stable on Tuesday."
"Head," Violet whimpers. "Exploding."
Ethan pulls over. He doesn't care that he's in a bus zone. He hits the hazards.
He reaches for her. She is dead weight.
Her face is contorted. The left side is drooping. A stroke? Or the tumor pressing on the vascular supply?
He grabs his phone. Speed dial 1.
"Wells. Speaker," he barks.
"Ethan?" It's late. She sounds asleep.
"Status change," Ethan yells. "Hemiparesis on the left. Slurred speech. Sudden onset headache. She's fading."
"Get her to the clinic," Wells orders, voice snapping to professional alertness. "It sounds like a hemorrhage inside the tumor. The drugs might have thinned the blood too much. If it bleeds, the pressure..."
"We're ten minutes out."
"Ethan," Wells warns. "If it's a hemorrhage in the brainstem... ten minutes is a lifetime."
Ethan hangs up.
He looks at Violet.
She is conscious, but barely. Her gold eye is blown wide, pupil fully dilated. Her amber eye is pinned. Anisocoria. Massive brain pressure.
"Ethan," she whispers. Her good hand reaches out, pawing blindly for him.
He takes her hand.
"I'm driving, Vi. Hold on."
"No," she slurs. "Stop."
"I'm not stopping."
"Please." She squeezes his hand with surprising strength. "Stop the car."
Ethan hesitates.
If he drives, maybe—maybe—they get there in time for a decompression surgery. A 5% chance.
If he stops...
He looks at her face. She is terrified. Not of death, he realizes. She is terrified of the hospital. Of the machine. Of dying while people stick needles in her arms to validate his investment.
"Stop," she begs. "I don't want to die in a box."
Ethan pulls the emergency brake.
He kills the engine.
Silence rushes into the car, heavy and final. The only sound is the rain and her ragged, wet breathing.
He unbuckles his seatbelt and slides over the console, pulling her into his arms.
"I'm here," he says. His voice is wrecked. "I'm right here."
She rests her head on his shoulder.
"Ethan," she struggles. Every word is a battle. "I tried."
"I know."
"I wanted... to be enough."
"You were always enough. It was me. I wanted too much."
She hums.
It's broken. A gargling, disjointed sound. Mmm... hmm...
It stops halfway through.
"I remember," she whispers, so quietly he has to lean his ear to her lips.
Ethan freezes. "What do you remember?"
"The bridge," she breathes. "Not the one here. The other one. Where I jumped."
Ethan holds his breath.
"He caught me," she murmurs. "You caught me. Same eyes. Different face. You always catch me."
"I tried to catch you, Violet. I'm sorry I dropped you."
She smiles—only with the right side of her face. The left side is paralyzed.
"It's okay," she sighs. The tension leaves her body all at once. The fight drains out. "Put me down now. Heavy."
"Violet."
"It's okay," she repeats. "Recycle me."
Her eyes flutter closed.
"Violet, stay awake."
"Tired," she mumbles. "So... efficient."
The breath leaves her lungs in a long, rattling exhale.
She doesn't inhale again.
Ethan waits.
He counts the seconds. One. Two. Ten.
He checks for a pulse.
Nothing.
The silence in the car is absolute. Even the rain seems to respect it.
Ethan sits there, holding the woman he bought and failed to save.
He doesn't scream this time. He doesn't beg the universe for a reset.
He feels cold. Just cold logic.
Analysis of Loop 2:
Money is ineffective against biology.
Gratitude kills intimacy.
Treating the symptom (death) doesn't cure the disease (the tragedy).
"Understood," Ethan says to the dead girl in his arms.
He kisses her forehead. It is still warm.
"Lesson learned."
He closes his eyes.
He waits for the static.
It comes quickly this time. A sharp, high-pitched whine that dissolves the leather seats, the rain, and the grief into pure white light.
Loop 3.
3:47 PM.
Wind. Petals. Sunlight.
Ethan Cross stands on the pavement. He doesn't fall. He doesn't vomit.
He stands perfectly still, feet planted shoulder-width apart.
He checks his watch. 3:47 PM.
He adjusts his cuffs.
He looks up at the fountain.
Violet Aurora is standing there. Taking her photo. Laughing at something a kid said nearby.
Ethan watches her.
He feels older. He feels ancient. He feels like he has lived a hundred years in six months.
Scenario 3, he thinks.
Romance failed. Medicine failed.
Hypothesis: The proximity is the catalyst. I am the danger.
If he touches her, she falls in love and dies of a broken heart or a broken brain.
If he saves her, she feels indebted and dies of a hemorrhage while trying to please him.
Maybe the only way to save her... is to not meet her at all.
Maybe he has to let her slip.
Violet lowers the camera. She steps back.
Ethan takes a breath.
She slips.
Ethan clenches his fists at his sides.
Don't move, he orders himself. Let the timeline play out without your interference. Maybe she catches herself. Maybe someone else catches her.
Violet tips backward.
Her arms windmill.
"Whoa!" she cries out.
She falls.
Ethan stands ten feet away. He watches.
She hits the ground. Hard.
It's not graceful. It's a painful thud of bone against wet stone.
"Ow!" she yells, sitting up. She clutches her ankle. "Jesus!"
She didn't hit her head. She just twisted an ankle.
Ethan feels a surge of dark relief. She's hurt, but she's alive. And he didn't touch her.
A stranger—a college kid in a hoodie—runs over. "Miss? You okay?"
"I think I sprained it," Violet grimaces, tears in her eyes. "My camera!"
The kid hands her the camera. "It looks okay."
Ethan watches from the shadows of the cherry blossom tree.
She doesn't see him.
She takes the kid's hand. He helps her up. She limps.
"I'm Jason," the kid says.
"Violet," she answers. She hums a little tune—pain mixed with embarrassment. Mmm-hmm.
She limps away with Jason, leaning on him for support.
Ethan stands alone.
His chest feels like someone scooped it out with a spoon.
He is completely unmoored. The "perfect meeting" never happened. She is gone, limping out of his life before she ever entered it.
"This is better," Ethan lies to himself. "This is efficient. She is safe from me."
He turns around.
Marcus is waiting at the North Gate.
Ethan walks toward his best friend.
"You're late," Marcus calls out, checking his phone. "Three minutes. That's a new record."
"Traffic," Ethan says. His voice is flat. Dead.
"You look terrible," Marcus observes. "Like you lost a million bucks."
"Something like that."
Ethan walks past him.
"Come on," he says. "We have work to do. I need to distract myself."
Loop 3 Strategy:
Total avoidance.
Monitor from extreme distance.
Allow the universe to run its course without Ethan Cross as a variable.
Ethan thinks this is the solution. He thinks if he removes himself, she lives.
He is about to learn that the Universe hates a vacuum. And if he isn't there to hold her... someone else will let her drop.