march 10th, 1989, 7:03 p.m.

Julien.

Standing before a door the color of a canary, a dewy morning warmth at her back.

I wish I could have stopped you, but what matters now—

Pressing her finger to the doorbell, her heart in her throat, trying to wipe the tears away before they arrived.

What matters now,

Julien—

A voice called from within: "Immy! It's unlocked. Come here."

Iman wanted to hesitate. Every force in her body wanted to pause, to harness it, to bask in the fact that this was real, this was real, this was real. But she remembered Fritz's pale hands in hers, her tears on his thumb. Don't tell him.

She nudged the door open, stepping inside. Same grayish foyer, same abstract paintings hanging on the walls, same winding staircase that led up to his bedroom.

As the door clicked shut behind her, again his voice called out: "I'm in the living room. I strongly advise you to enter very, very slowly, by the way."

Iman did as he said, taking her time as she pivoted and started for the living room.

The sun was already high in the sky, sliding in golden shafts through the half-open windows, illuminating the individual motes of dust that danced and swung about in the air like domesticated snowflakes. Mounted to the ceiling, the fan swung slowly, and below it all was Julien.

He was lying on his stomach at the edge of the oriental rug, eyes narrowed and tongue between his teeth as he dug around in his bag, placed a domino right side up on the floor, scooted back a little, placed another one. They were all in a spiral towards the center of the rug—the coffee table was shoved precariously against the wall—and Iman, in all her awe, nearly toppled the whole thing as she entered.

Julien's head flicked up, black curls bouncing. He flashed a brilliant smile that made Iman's chest hurt, thinking of the last time she had seen it, just before his face had gone slack. "I know what you're thinking."

No. He really didn't. "You do?"

"Yeah," said Julien, pushing himself up to a proper sitting position, "you're thinking: 'God, he must be bored.' And you're not wrong at all. But still. Neat, right?"

A light chuckle escaped her. "Yes," she agreed, leaning back against the wall, willing herself not to cause any damage—whether to Julien, or his dominos. "Very neat."

Julien smiled again, then held up the bag of dominos, giving it a brief shake. "So?" he said, winking at her. "Wanna help me, since you're here?"

This was how Iman found herself on the floor beside him, handing him a domino when he asked for one, following him as he snaked behind the couch and around a potted plant and back out into the foyer again. As they worked, she only watched him, taking in every bit of him, afraid it was her last chance to. She had missed the way he kissed his teeth when he was thinking, and how that little vein appeared in his arm when he reached for something, and the way he jutted a dark eyebrow whenever something surprised him. She had missed his soft head of dark curls, those equally dark eyes, that spotless skin. She had missed him, and now, here in his presence, it struck her like an arrow in her chest, bleeding the more she looked at him.

This time when Julien said, "Domino," Iman didn't hear him, because she was crying.

Immediately he was sitting up, brushing Iman's hair from her face, trying to get her to look at him. "Im," he said, frowning. "Immy, what is it? Oh, dear. Is it something going on back in—when did you say? 2021, or something? I bet I screwed up. God, am I an asshole in 2021? I mean not that I'm all that perfect now—no, wait, don't ruin your sweater. Use my sleeve, instead."

He mopped her face, and Iman let him, sniffling, wishing just once that her heart wasn't so easily moved. She had wanted this time to be normal, just like Fritz had said, but nothing about this was normal. Not a thing.

"Iman—"

Voice shaking. Body shaking. "Hold me, Jules."

The eyebrow went up. "Sorry?"

"I really need to feel your arms around me, okay?" Iman sniffled. She looked up into those bottomless eyes—how she'd missed those, too—like a clear night sky, like the past, the present, and the future, all in one bizarre and alluring mix. "Please, Julien. I really need you to hold me."

Iman closed her eyes as his arms swept around her, bringing her close, one hand guiding her head onto his chest, right over his still heart. She breathed in the scent of him, rested in the feeling of his skin upon hers, the undulation of his neck as he swallowed. She listened to him breathe. She twirled his hair around her fingers. He was real, he was real, he was real.

"I don't understand, Iman."

God, that voice. How much she had missed his voice, how it sounded whenever he said her name, like she was some beautiful gift to this world, or more importantly, a beautiful gift to him.

"Listen," she said, and even as she did, she knew it would not change anything. What was done was done. The book was closed, the door locked, the stone thrown in the sea. Yet she could not live with herself if she sat here and said nothing to calm his ever-stirring soul, because it was Julien, and even if he said he was, she knew he was never at rest.

So she said again, closing her eyes, her nerves awake and still trembling, "Listen, Jules. You don't have to understand. Just know that—before here, before I started traveling to you, it was all aimless. I went anywhere, everywhere, but then I met you, and it was like my life finally had purpose. I wasn't so afraid when I traveled anymore, because I thought, At least I'll get to see him again. Even if you were painting ugly pictures or baking a bunch of half-burnt sugar cookies, or...or knitting, or whatever the hell you do—"

"Im—?"

"—I was still just so glad to be there, Julien, because God—because I was with you," said Iman. She turned her head, burying her face further into his shirt. "My grandmother warned my parents I would be cursed, but it's not a curse. It can't be. Not if it's brought me to you."

Now her heart was pounding, and Iman sat back, wanting to look him in the face, wanting to make sure he remembered it, remembered this moment. If nothing else, it would comfort him. If nothing else, it would offer him peace, a concept that was always so, so far away from him.

Iman waited until her face was dry, and then she held out both her hands, resting them on either side of his face. "I love you, Julien Morales," she said, "and I am not the only one. I love you, Fritz loves you, Beck—oh, you don't know who that is, but just—I know you miss the family you had before. But don't forget that you have one now, too, okay?"

Julien just stared at her, his mouth partially open with puzzlement. "Is...everything okay?"

Fritz's words in the back of her mind: Don't tell him. She had already said too much.

Iman nodded her head, grinning at him as she dropped her hands. And when she said it, it was true. "Yeah," she said. "Everything's just fine."

Only, Julien shook his head. "No," he said with a dismal sigh. "It's not."

"Don't worry about it, Jules."

"But I do worry. All the damn time. And now—"

Iman kept trying to shush him—she was afraid, truly, of what he would say—but he refused to listen. He kept shaking his head, waiting, shaking it again, until finally he frowned and said, "If it's because...I don't really say what I'm feeling a lot, I'm sorry. I am truly shit at talking about my feelings."

Iman rolled her eyes. "Trust me; I know."

"Yes. So if you're...doubting something because of that, don't. You have no idea what you mean to me, Iman. I'd never trade you for—for anything, you know that? I know it's scary, but it's true. You know?"

She was weightless, floating through air and space and time. Even when she nodded her head, she wanted to say No, no, to will herself to stay a bit longer, just to be with him, even if it was in utter silence, even if there was nothing left for her to say. What else could she do, after all, but tell him that she loved him, and hope it would be enough? What else could she do when fate had already carved its stubborn path?

Slowly, Iman got to her feet.

Julien watched her, not moving from his spot upon the floor. "Immy," he said.

Immy.

He said it like there was something else meant to come afterwards, something she was meant to hear, but she had no more time. The world was already falling away from her, and Julien with it.

She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the look on his face when she said what she knew would be the last thing she ever said to him.

"Goodbye, Julien," said Iman. "And thank you."

And when she came to again, wooden stoop gritting underneath her palms, it was not Julien's yellow door that greeted her, but her own. Beck stood in front of it, Ringo dozing off in his arms, and when he heard her he immediately dropped to the ground, releasing Ringo, searching for Iman instead.

"Im?" he said, one hand grappling unsteadily around her wrist. "Oh, thank God. When Fritz told me where you went, I got so worried, you have no idea. So did you—did you see him?"

Iman nodded her head.

A pause. "Are you...okay?"

Iman's eyes fell to the cat, who was waltzing around the foot of the door, meowing indignantly.

And she laughed. It felt so good to laugh.

"I think I will be, Beck," she told him. "I think I will be."