Page 7 of Time Loops & Meet Cutes
Not sure what else to do with myself, I head home and go to bed early.
The next morning, I wake up to my alarm and check on my experiments.
There’s no evidence of the three sentences I wrote in the proposal.
Netflix doesn’t remember where I am inThe Office.
My most recent text to my brother is dated June 17.
There is no record of my Amazon purchase.
The list I made doesn’t exist.
There’s still one more thing to check. I call my parents’ landline, and once again, my dad picks up.
“Noelle! This is a pleasant surprise. Are you at the office?”
“No, I’m sick.”
This is apparently a surprise to him.
The conversation continues as it did yesterday, except I don’t ask him for any book recommendations. Instead, I blurt out, “Have you ever been stuck in a time loop?”
“Uh…”
I’ll take that as a “no.” I was just wondering if there’s a genetic component to this. Like, maybe people in my family are particularly susceptible to being stuck in time loops or… something. Yeah, that sounds like a science fiction book I might have read back in the day, but I’m desperate. I don’t know what’s happening, and I hate the unknown.
“Never mind, never mind. Talk to you later!” I say before ending the call.
I could, of course, try to tell him the truth. I’m not sure what his reaction would be. I’m the organized one. The sensible one. The calm and responsible one. Saying I’m stuck in a time loop would be wildly out of character.
I curl up on the futon and put onThe Office. Even if Netflix doesn’t remember where I am in the show, I do. I select the right episode and press play, but I don’t really pay attention to what’s on-screen.
Everything feels meaningless.
It’s just me in this time loop, from what I can tell. If I told someone about it, even if they believed me, they’d forget again tomorrow, and then I’d have to explain it all over again, and the thought just makes me tired. And lonely. I’m used to spending lots of time by myself, but I’m not used to feeling so alone in the world.
They give you what you need most, the old woman said.
If she really is responsible, what the hell was she trying to accomplish? Is what I need most really to be huddled in front of my TV, mindlessly watching a sitcom on a weekday?
Or maybe she thought I needed to live life as if there are no consequences. I’ve never done that before. It doesn’t make any sense to live that way; there are always consequences.
Spontaneously quit your job? You won’t be able to pay your bills.
Eat an entire large meat lover’s pizza? You’ll feel sick.
Get drunk? You’ll be hungover.
Don’t do your homework? You’ll get a bad mark.
I’m used to looking before I leap. But if I have to be stuck in on June 20, maybe I can afford not to think about the consequences for once, though I can’t imagine why this would be a good thing. It reminds me of my uncle, who passed away a couple of years ago. His life was always in shambles due to his terrible decisions.
That evening, while making myself a simple dinner—I don’t bother going to the night market again—I accidentally nick my finger. It’s not terribly painful, but it’s bloody. As I put on a bandage, I realize it’s the perfect way to test the time loop further.
Hypothesis: when I wake up tomorrow morning, there will be no dinosaur bandage. (I usually don’t buy dinosaur bandages, but they were the cheapest ones the last time I went to the pharmacy.) There will be no mark on my skin either.
Indeed, my hypothesis is confirmed the next morning, and somehow, this is what makes my new reality truly sink in: the lack of consequences, even when it comes to my body.
