you’ll always wait for me to come home

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/28532661.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Major Character Death
Category: M/M
Fandom: SKAM (Norway)
Relationship: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Character: Isak Valtersen, Even Bech Næsheim, Sana Bakkoush, Mutasim Tatouti,
Elias Bakkoush, Mikael Øverlie Boukhal
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst with a Happy Ending,
though 'happy ending' is relative to your judgment
Stats: Published: 2021-01-03 Words: 14853

you’ll always wait for me to come home

by iriswests

Summary

In a world where time may be arbitrary, but perhaps not linear, Even looks for Isak.

Notes

hello! this is a reupload of a fic i wrote and uploaded a while back. i took it down for
original work purposes, but recently i’ve noted the original work that stemmed from this fic
is significantly different by now so that this can exist on its own in the fanfiction space.

please heed the tags/warnings! below are some of the original notes i uploaded with the fic
the first time. love y’all!

--

things you must know about this fic:

- it was semi-inspired by both “arrival” and some of “black mirror”. also it just came out of
nowhere. i downloaded a program that locks me out of the computer until after a specified
amount of time. i’ve been doing that for a week and a half now, and this was born of it.

- instrumentals i listened to while writing this: “the mighty rio grande” by this will destroy
you, “on the nature of daylight” by max richter, “end” by alex somers & sigur rós, and
“sherwin & johnathan” by arturo cardelus. i highly recommend listening to these while you
read!

- some things are explained at the end. others aren’t. such is life.

i asked twitter if they would choose between three genres as a different, stand-alone fic to
 find my groove with again. they chose predominantly angsty with a happy ending. you can
blame their masochistic asses for this.

this is so sci-fi it hurts. have i ever told you guys my favorite genre of ever is sci-fi? the
more you know.

this was not beta'd, so any mistakes are my own.

major thanks to summer & everyone who was encouraging and sweet on twitter during the
live tweeting of my writing woes. i see you all, and i love you.

See the end of the work for more notes

1642.

The silence after he’s gone is like no other kind of quiet.

When there was silence before, it was filled with unspoken words and the loudness of Isak’s
thoughts coming from the other room — Even would always tell him he could hear the gears in his
head turning at any given time of day, and Isak would always promptly flip him off and tell him to
get lost.

But there would always be a smile on his face when he did, and Even would hardly ever truly
leave. Maybe about fifteen minutes after the fact, Isak would look for him again, and though his
gears continued to turn loudly, they would do so pressed against Even’s chest, turning peacefully to
the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Now the quiet is lonely and mocking, like there was never any trace of those gears, anyway, even
though they turned here for three years. Like there was never any trace of the loud thoughts Even
could swear to hear all those times before, even though they yelled at him from every inch of this
house. Like there was never any trace of him, even though he’s all over the place.

He’s in the sweater thrown over the couch — he’s in the mismatched socks stuffed into the shoes
at the entrance — he’s in the pile of papers sitting on the desk — he’s in the broken glasses that
were promised to be fixed for months — he’s in the lopsided picture frame hanging below the
clock — he’s in the faulty light bulb in the closet — he’s in the unwashed dishes in the sink —
he’s in the dirty clothes atop the washing machine — he’s in the unmade bed — he’s here, he’s
still here, and Even thinks it’s so unfair how the quiet now makes it seem like he never has been.

When he walks into the bathroom, the tube of toothpaste is folded a couple of times over. Even
grabs it and throws it in the trash.

Mikael had offered to come home with him after the funeral. “I’ll stay for a couple of days, if you
want,” he’d said, and the pity in his eyes was enough for Even to say no. That’s not what he needs
right now.

He needs time.

He needs so much time.

He wishes he had more time.

He wishes the markings on the calendar were more arbitrary than they already are. He wishes time
worked differently. He wishes he could look back, and know about today, and know about three
days ago, and spend every day being better.

He wishes he’d counted how many times he said “I love you”. He wishes they counted more.

Even looks at himself in the mirror and doesn’t see himself looking back. He wishes he could
reach inside and become the person that only appears when the person he truly is walks by. He
wishes he didn’t feel the heaviness in his heart so deeply, that it wasn’t weighing him down so
harshly.

For a moment, he wonders if he wishes he’d never met Isak.

And then the person in the mirror disappears completely, and the person that he is is under the
duvet Isak had chosen for them, and he takes a deep breath, and he closes his eyes.

0001.

Even’s had about two drinks over his self-imposed limit, and he’s definitely feeling them right
now.

Elias has already pushed him towards the bathroom, half-expecting for Even to start throwing up
soon, but Even doesn’t feel queasy. He mostly feels light-headed, if a little uneven, but not like
he’s going to throw all of the alcohol up.

He tells Elias as much, but he’s not sure if his words are too slurred or simply not said at all,
because Elias still pushes him past the bathroom door and inside, where the loud music from the
club becomes muffled and distant.

“I’m not gonna throw up,” Even whines loudly, and he catches Elias’s eye roll from his peripheral
vision.

“I’m not gonna risk you throwing up on the bartender again,” Elias replies, and Even narrows his
eyes.

“One time.”

“Twice,” Elias corrects him, and, oh yeah. Twice.

“Twice,” he agrees belatedly. “But that’s just ‘cause they were cute.”

“They were the same person.”

“Okay, he was cute.”

“The same person that’s bartending here.”

Even pauses. “Dude, why do we keep coming back here?”

“Good tail,” his friend replies, patting his back twice. “And they haven’t banned us yet, so.” The
room’s spinning a little bit. “I’m going to sit on the toilet.”

Elias grunts at Even’s words, and Even pushes past him and into an empty stall, where he promptly
plants himself atop a toilet, just like he said he was going to. He’s a man of his word, Even is. He
closes his eyes and presses the back of his head against the uncomfortable wall behind him, takes a
few deep breaths to make sure he doesn’t actually have to puke, after all.
“Oh, dude,” Elias sounds irritated. “I thought you were gonna take a shit.”

“You sound disappointed,” Even replies, eyes remaining closed. “Were you hoping to watch me
take a shit?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t sit on a dirty toilet seat with your pants on.”

Even frowns through closed eyes. “I feel like that’s better than sitting on a dirty toilet seat with my
bare ass. Less chance of disease that way.”

“I do your laundry, Even,” Elias reminds him. “I feel like you may be doing this on purpose.”

“No one’s making you do my laundry, Bakkoush,” Even points out. He hears Elias snort.

“I lost a bet, asshole. You’re making me do your laundry.”

Even grins slyly. “Ah, that’s right,” he nods seriously. “Now I remember. I’m making you do my
laundry.”

“So you did do this on purpose?”

“Oh, no,” Even opens his eyes again and meets his friend’s. “I just needed a breather, and there are
no other seats in here.”

Elias turns to look pointedly behind him. There is a loveseat and an armchair classily positioned in
the corner of the bathroom, between a plastic potted plant and in front of a hung classical painting
on the wall. Even blinks at the scene for a moment, thinking.

“Are we overspending?” he asks, and Elias shakes his head, looking puzzled.

“What.”

“This place is fancy enough to have seating in the men’s bathroom.”

“I guess?”

“Clearly we’re overspending.”

“You can’t put a price on good tail, Even.”

“I can,” he sniffs. “It’s not this.”

“Are you gonna hurl, or nah?”

Even thinks about it. “Nah,” he decides. “I don’t think I am.”

“But you’ll cool it with the drinks?”

“Yes.”

“And the bartender?”

“Maybe.”

“Even.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine,” he holds up both of his hands in defeat. “I’ll stay away from the
bartender and his chiseled arms and his jaw carved by the Gods because you don’t want me to
throw up on him because you don’t want to be banned because you want to get laid even though
we’re clearly overspending just by standing here.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Elias grins. “C’mon, let’s head on out.”

Even shakes his head. “Leave me be for a while longer, friend,” he requests dramatically. “The
floor has yet to find my feet.”

Elias looks at Even’s feet. “Your feet are on the floor.”

Even looks at his feet. They don’t seem to be on the floor, but then again, Even’s pretty sure the
floor shouldn’t be swaying so much, so this could just be the alcohol talking. In fact, he’s sure it
is.

“Can you not leave a man to his toilet?”

Elias sighs. “I’m sending Mikael in ten minutes,” he warns Even.

“How fun.”

“He’s taking you home if you’re not up by then.”

“Yes, mom.”

Elias raises an eyebrow and stomps his way inside the stall. He grabs Even’s head between both of
his hands and presses an aggressive, sloppy kiss on his hair — Even thinks it’d feel grainy and
stubbly if it were anywhere near actual skin. He grunts as his friend pulls away and swiftly turns to
walks out of the stall, calling back, “See ya soon, sweetie,” and cackling as he exits the bathroom.

Even waits until the door slams closed and the music is muffled again to let out a chuckle, because
he’s not going to give Elias the satisfaction of knowing him having the last word was actually
amusing, and before he can gather his thoughts enough to form a coherent sentence, he hears a
protesting groan echo inside the bathroom.

For a second Even thinks he’s released a long, melancholy fart, but then the stall door next to his
comes into view in front of him, and out steps—

Oh.

How could he have ever thought he knew beauty until this very moment?

He may be hallucinating in his drunken state. It might be entirely possible, because drinking for
him is dangerous, and getting drunk always brings up all sorts of problems it may not bring up for
other people. Hallucinations — yet to occur, but not something Even’s willing to rule out, still,
because the man that’s making his way to one of the sinks with his shoulders slumped and head
down cannot exist in this world. There’s absolutely no way.

Even never thought he’d be having Feelings like these in a club bathroom, but they are happening,
and there is nothing else to do now but embrace them, the same way this toilet is embracing his
still clothed behind.

Although the man is clearly still trying to hide his face from Even’s vision, he can still catch a
glimpse of his diamond-cut jaw and perk, perfect nose, and the skin on his face is perhaps redder
than the rest of the skin on him, but Even’s sure either the lighting or the situation is to blame.
Even is thinking two things: this man has either been here through the entire exchange between
him and Elias, or he is most definitely a hallucination courtesy of the two drinks over, and he’s
appeared to guide Even through an inner turmoil.

“Are you here to guide me?” he asks suddenly, and the beautiful man stiffens his wide, shapely
shoulders. For a second, Even thinks he might not even say anything, because he looks so taken
aback by the fact that Even’s acknowledged him he may have rendered this man mute, but that is
not the case — the man instead turns off the running water and grabs at a fluffy towel that sits on
the counter to dry his hands.

“Uhm,” the man clears his throat. “I — I’m sorry?”

Even narrows his eyes and wonders why this man is not spinning with the rest of the room. Maybe
he is a hallucination. Maybe he’s so taken aback by Even’s acknowledgment because he’s a ghost,
and no one’s ever been able to see him before. It’d certainly explain his looks — Even can’t
believe anyone who looks like that exists in a terrible time like this one.

“I’m just trying to figure out if you’re real,” Even explains.

The man blinks. They’re looking at each other through the mirror, and it’s only now that the man
seems to notice this, because his face flushes a darker red and he turns around to face Even
completely and oh — oh, please be real.

“I’m — real?”

“Are you sure?”

“What?”

“You just don’t sound too sure.”

“I’m sure. I’m sure I’m real.”

Even considers him for a moment. “You promise?”

The man looks bemused. “Uhm — yes?”

Even purses his lips. “Why aren’t you spinning like the rest of the room?”

The man looks around him, and his brows furrow. “Uhm — the room isn’t spinning?”

“I know,” Even waves him off. “It’s only spinning because I’m drunk, but you’re not spinning with
it. And, like, if you were really standing there, I think you’d be spinning with it, right?”

The man is quiet for a second. “Uh, I guess,” he nods once. “That would probably make sense,
yeah.”

“Yeah,” Even nods once, too. “But you’re not spinning with it. So, by that logic, you can’t be real.
But you’re saying you are real — so why aren’t you spinning with the room?”

“Maybe I’m moving really fast,” the man offers. “And you can’t tell because it counteracts the
spinning, so it just looks like I’m standing still to you.”

Even hums. “Are you moving really fast?”

“Well, no.”
“Well, huh.”

“But I am real.”

Even is quiet for a moment. “Can you lick your elbow?”

The man’s previously confused expression now turns extremely baffled. “What?”

“Can you lick your elbow?”

Neither of them says anything for a moment; it’s like the challenge is hanging between them, and
it’s like the man is wondering if Even’s worth playing along with. To be fair, not a lot of people
would have kept this conversation up with an obviously-drunk Even, but something about this man
is clearly keeping him engaged, and Even wants to know. Wants to know what that something is,
wants to know so much more about him. But he kind of wants to know if he’s real, first.

Suddenly, the man’s face clears slightly, and he looks at his arm. Then, slowly, he folds his arm
and tries to bring his elbow near his mouth. He doesn’t stick his tongue out — pity — but the
elbow is far enough from the man’s mouth that they both can deduce there is no way he could have
licked his elbow, anyway.

“Holy crap,” Even whispers triumphantly. “You are real.”

The man’s eyebrows rise and he lowers his arm. “Really?” he shakes his head. “That convinced
you?”

“Only an otherworldly being can lick their elbow.”

“I’m pretty sure there are people who can—”

“Shh,” Even shushes his as he clumsily stands from the toilet. He maybe stumbles a couple of
times, but he finds his balance by pressing both his palms against either of the walls beside him. “I
thought you might have been an angel—”

“Uh—”

“But you’re human, just like the rest of us.”

“I have no idea what’s happening right now.”

“I’m Even,” he introduces himself, holding out his hand. The man stares at his hand for a moment,
still looking incredibly confused, but after a moment of clear hesitation, the man takes Even’s hand
in his own.

“Isak,” he replies, and there would have been perhaps more beautiful names to grace Even’s ears in
the future, but now that he’s heard this one, none will compare.

“Isak,” he breathes. “Hi, Isak.”

Isak blinks at him. Their hands are still wrapped around each other’s, still awkwardly gravitating
up and down, like they’ve nowhere else to go, anyway. “Hi, Even.”

0094.

Even narrows his eyes at the cage.

“He’s challenging me,” he decides, and Isak glances up from his desk for only a moment before
presumably rolling his eyes at Even’s antics.

“He’s a lab mouse, Even, for God’s sake.”

“He wants me to set him free,” Even declares, standing upright and looking back over at Isak. “I
don’t think he likes being a lab mouse. I think he just wants to be a mouse.”

Isak nods, though he doesn’t look at Even — simply writes some more things down on paper,
because he’s weird and he’s ignoring his open laptop beside him. “I think so, too.”

“So why are you—”

“I don’t get to decide what we experiment on, Even,” Isak sighs, putting the pen in his hand down
atop the notebook paper quietly and raising an eyebrow at him. Even has the urge to step forward
and kiss him, but he refrains, because when Even visits Isak at work he’s usually told to keep his
lips and his hands and his everything else to himself. If not by Isak, then by Sana, who will narrow
her eyes at Even every time he strides into their office like he owns the place.

And, like, whatever, Sana owes him for not introducing him to Isak sooner, so as much as Even
loves her like the little sister he never particularly asked for, he can also ignore her grievances as
such.

“Sana and I do whatever we can to keep from experimenting on them,” Isak continues to explain to
Even, who is currently poking his finger through one of the holes on top of the mouse’s cage.
“That one there is Henrik. Been with us for about six months, now. Successfully avoided any
major experimenting.”

“What else would you experiment on, if you could avoid mice?”

“Ideally?” Isak hums, standing from his chair and walking over to stand beside Even. He crosses
his arms over his chest and regards the mouse in front of them with something that resembles
fondness. “Humans.”

Even’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Humans?”

Isak nods. “It’d be easier. Simpler. Definitely a lot more accurate. Mice don’t tell us all that much,
to be honest. But they’re cheap and easy to maneuver, so it’s what we get.”

“But then a bunch of humans could die, right?”

Isak nods. “Mostly I wish we didn’t have to experiment at all.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“I want to find a way to make the theoretical true,” Isak explains. “You know. If the numbers are
right, if a simulation is at least ninety-eight percent successful, then we know for sure, and we can
avoid experimenting on anything at all.”

“In a perfect world,” Even smiles over at Isak, and Isak returns the smile ruefully. “Yep.”

“I can write you one,” Even declares. “I’ll write you a perfect world in which simulations are
accurate enough that no one ever has to suffer.”

Isak smirks. “I won’t accept anything that isn’t Oscar-nominated in the end.”
“Wow,” Even grins as Isak laughs. “Okay, alright, suddenly Mr. Fast-and-Furious-is-the-best-
movie franchise-of-all-time has standards?”

“A perfect world deserves a perfect award, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll write you a movie that’ll win best picture at the Oscars,” Even agrees. “But you’ve got to win
a Nobel Peace Prize for — whatever it is you’re doing here.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “You think this’ll lead us to a Nobel Peace Prize?”

Even shrugs. “To be honest, I’m still not entirely sure what it is you do here—”

“On purpose,” Isak reminds him, but Even simply waves him off.

“But I do know you’re bright enough to turn this into something mind-blowing and life-altering for
the entire world.”

Isak smiles softly. “You’re putting a lot of faith in a guy you’ve been dating for two months.”

Even raises an eyebrow. “Have we not known each other for forever?”

Isak shakes his head. “Nope. Three months.”

Even smirks. “Ah, that’s right. We met in a bathroom.”

“Yes, we did.”

“What a most romantic story to tell our children.”

Isak laughs. “Jesus, dude, dating 101 — never bring up future children before the first-year
anniversary.”

“The time will fly by, anyway,” Even assures Isak. “Blink, and we’ll have been together for a
year.” Isak doesn’t blink. In fact, it seems to Even he’s not blinking on purpose. Even pouts.

“Isak, blink.”

Isak snorts. “And miss ten months of our relationship? Now why would you want time to work that
way?”

“But it wouldn’t feel like we did,” Even explains. “We’ll have lived it all — it’ll all be right in
here,” he presses a finger to his own temple, taps it twice. “And still, it will have felt like no time
at all.”

Isak eyes Even curiously. “If you could, would you manipulate time that way?”

Even thinks on this. “Backwards? Or forwards?”

“Both?”

“Like a blu-ray,” Even offers. “Rewind, fast-forward, pause.”

“Sure,” Isak nods. “Like a blu-ray.”

Even looks Isak over. He thinks about being able to pause right here, right now, just in order to
take Isak in for longer. He thinks about being able to pause the day they met in the bathroom,
when the room was spinning and the sink kept running, Even’s hands freezing from turning the
wrong knob. He thinks about pausing Isak’s smile as he leaned over and turned the knob off for
him, and maybe fast-forwarding to the part of the conversation where Isak convinced Even he was
real.

“Maybe,” he finally replies, and Isak nods once, glances over at Henrik, the poor lab mouse.

“Maybe,” Isak echoes quietly. And then, he blinks.

0365.

Isak looks so beaten down it tugs at every single one of Even’s heartstrings.

“And all I got you—” Isak sniffs as he holds up a bouquet of red roses. “Was a stupid bouquet of
fucking roses, like the biggest cliche that’s ever lived—”

“Isak,” Even takes a step closer, but Isak seems to not hear his kind protest.

“I’m such a horrible boyfriend, oh my God,” Isak swats the roses against the kitchen counter,
setting them down harshly. “You’re going to break up with me. You’re going to break up with me,
aren’t you?”

Even grimaces. “It’d be sort of a dick move to do it on our first anniversary, wouldn’t it?”

Isak shakes his head. “I’d deserve it.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Even laughs quietly as he reaches Isak, finally, and caresses his face carefully
between his hands. His eyes meet the richest, most beautiful green, and for a second, time is still.
“You deserve the entire world.”

Isak sniffles, and his lips form the smallest pout known to mankind. “I forgot. I forgot, Even.”

Even shrugs. “You’re busy.”

“That’s no excuse. You’re busy, too.”

“Uhm,” Even scoffs. “Isak, I don’t know if you know this, but directing student films once in a
while does not compare to working in an astrophysics research lab while still working towards a
doctorate. Like — it doesn’t even come close to the same amount of busy.”

“I always promised myself I wouldn’t let it fuck this up,” Isak whispers cryptically, and Even
raises an eyebrow, as one does when faced with a cryptic whisper.

“Come again?”

Isak sighs loudly, blinks back unshed tears. “Before I met you that night, I’d decided — I’d
decided that I would put my work first, you know? Finish my doctorate. Write my thesis. Change
the world, whatever. Because that’s — I mean, that’s all I really had. And then I met you, and it
was like—” Isak opens his mouth, then closes it. Then he opens it again, as if he’s still trying to
find the right words. “I don’t know. I don’t know, it’s like you were just — there. For me. Like, out
of all the places, of all the times, we wound up at the same exact point in time together that night
and I thought — I thought, okay, so maybe work isn’t the most important thing in life, and maybe
that’s not all I can have, and then you just stuck around, despite me being — well, me—”

“I quite enjoy you.”

Isak ignores this. “And you are just — you! You’re you, you’re the person I would have liked to
have been in high school. You’re the person who brings out a side of me I thought was long gone,
Even, you give me hope and you’re so pretty and you’re such a bright light and I fell in love with
you, and then I told myself, okay, so, like, don’t fuck this up, then, Isak, it would be better if you
didn’t fuck this up, Isak, balance it out, because he’s important, he feels important, and you’re —
you’re important, you know that?” Isak is shedding a couple of tears now. “You’re so important to
me.”

Even smiles softly, strokes Isak’s cheek with his thumb. “You’re important to me, too.”

“You are beyond — work, and the stars, and the research, you’re just beyond, like everything I
don’t know yet but I’m so excited to find out. You’re like the best part about science, except better,
because you, you know—” Isak’s gesture is inscrutable.

“Have a dick?” Even offers, and Isak laughs once, shaking his head.

“Know me, too,” he finally finishes quietly. “You know me, too.”

Even huffs, only slightly amused, but mostly touched, and he leans forward to press his lips softly
to Isak’s in a short but intimate kiss. When he pulls away, it’s only a couple of centimeters, and
their noses are brushing when he says, “I love you, too.”

Isak nods. “I know,” he replies quietly. “That’s the best part. I know.”

Even pulls away entirely then, and quickly grabs at the poor, beaten-down red roses on the
counter. “Now, if you’re done abusing these poor flowers, I’d like to place them in water now,” he
announces, and Isak shakes his head sheepishly.

“You don’t have to keep them.”

“Are you kidding me?” Even gasps, feigning offense. “They’ve endured a frantic Isak Valtersen to
get here. They deserve to live out the rest of their lives with me.”

As he walks towards the furthest cabinet to the left, he hears Isak sigh loudly behind him, as if he
doesn’t understand Even. Which is often something Even finds so funny, because he thinks he’s an
open book — he offers understanding where there is none. It’s Isak who’s the mystery at times,
and Isak who could afford to be more forthcoming, and yet.

“You made me a movie,” Isak is settling down on the couch now, and Even blinks.

He furrows his brows, but wraps his arm around Isak automatically, anyway. Brings him closer.
This is familiar. This is his.

“I did,” he mutters, brushing his lips against Isak’s forehead.

“What did you call it?”

Even shakes his head. “I don’t—” Remember. He doesn’t exactly remember. That’s strange, isn’t
it? He’s spent so much time on the movie, and yet he can’t remember what he’s titled it.

Then—

“Oh,” Even nods. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t what?”

“Call it anything,” he explains. “I wanted you to see it and feel it and then tell me what it felt like.”

“And then?”

“Then I was going to name it,” Even explains. “Yeah. That’s what I was going to do.”

Isak shakes his head, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he waves his hands
towards the television. “Let’s feel some things.”

1643.

Timeless.

The irony is not lost on Even. He’d named the film Timeless when they finished watching it,
because Isak said that’s what it was going to be. Timeless. That’s what it felt like to Isak when he
watched it. Timeless.

The awards for the film now hanging above their fireplace mean very little to Even. They’re
mocking, mostly, reminding him that one of his greatest accomplishments came about because of
the one person who’s ever made him feel like he could accomplish great things.

Even’s brows furrow as he leans forward. There’s something about the plaques—

Time.

Oh.

Even must have forgotten, then. He’d simply named it Time, not Timeless. Maybe it’d felt cleaner
at the time. Maybe Isak had liked that title better during submissions.

He feels like he’s losing his mind. The quieter the house, the more difficult it becomes to
remember much with accuracy. Like this place is slowly erasing the memories he thought he had.
Like it’s trying to plant false ones, like it’s trying to take everything about Isak and turn it into
something else. Something that might not have happened.

The more twisted, the more foreign, the easier to forget.

So then, maybe the quiet of the house is doing him more of a favor than anything else.

0484.

They’ve never been this angry at each other before.

There have been spats — normal things between boyfriends, things that even friends could argue
over: time management, mostly, more than anything else they’ve ever fought about before.

It’s been three days since they’ve spoken to each other. Even feels them like a gaping wound in his
chest.

Mutta and Mikael are over, and they’re half-attempting to get Even out of this funk, half-attempting
to get him to tell them what actually happened, but Even’s only half-attempting to care about their
presence.

“You know I can’t remember that much before him?” Even speaks up suddenly, laying on the
floor of his living room and staring at the ceiling. “It’s like I was there, but I wasn’t. What was I
doing before him?”
Mikael and Mutta exchange a glance that Even catches through his peripheral. “Sonja, mostly,”
Mikael replies unhelpfully, and then Mutta is kind enough to elbow him in the chest for Even, who
is unable to at the moment, considering his position on the floor and their position on the couch.

“I’m serious,” Even insists. “I can barely remember what we were fighting about, let alone what I
was doing over a year ago.”

“That’s a good sign,” Mutta offers. “Could mean he’s starting to forget, too.”

Even shakes his head. “Not Isak,” he insists. “It’s not that simple for him.”

“I have it on good authority that he misses you, too,” Mikael pipes up. “That good authority being
his best friend.”

“Sana?”

“Jonas,” Mikael corrects him. “Is Sana his best friend?”

Even shakes his head. “I don’t know. Do work colleagues count as best friends?”

“They’re always talking nerd,” Mutta interjects. “But do they talk about other things?”

Even wonders why they haven’t taken Sana to dinner yet. Then he wonders if they’ll ever have the
chance to.

“It feels—” Even frowns. “Like I’ve already lost him?”

“Dude,” Mikael starts firmly. “You haven’t.”

But it feels like it. Shit, it feels like it. What if it’s worse than Even remembers? What if he’s truly
fucked up this time, what if Isak decides he isn’t as important as he once thought he was?

“Was I this forgetful before Isak?” Even asks his friends, and he sees both of them shake their head
no.

“I’m sure it’s a love thing,” Mutta says. “Like, selective memory, or something.”

Right. Selective memory, or something.

“Do you guys think time is linear?”

There’s silence.

“Did you sneak some fucking weed before we got here? We told you not to.”

“First, you’re not the boss of me, Mikael,” he replies swiftly. “Second, no. I did not.”

“Then you’re just not making any sense because you don’t want to?”

“I just don’t remember why we’re fighting. But I also feel like I fucked up. Like I really, really,
really fucked up.”

There’s more silence.

“Even,” Mutta starts kindly. “Do you think that maybe you’re — you’re in the beginnings of—”

“An episode?” Even finishes.

Mutta nods.

Maybe. But it’s never happened this way before. It’s never felt like this before. It’s never affected
his memory this gravely before, and it’s certainly never started so subtly, that’s for sure. His manic
episodes like to take over the motherboard pretty swiftly and recklessly. They usually don’t give
Even time to think, let alone to forget. Before he knows what’s happened, it’s happened, and—

Then again.

“Have I been manic?” Even asks, quickly scrambling to a sitting position. The change of tone
makes both Mutta and Mikael jump slightly.

Mutta shakes his head. “Not that we know of.”

“I’ve lost time,” Even explains. “I think I might have been — maybe I’ve been manic.”

“Ah,” Mikael exchanges yet another glance with Mutta. “Even, we like to think we’ve gotten
pretty good at knowing when you are, and Isak — Isak would have mentioned it, wouldn’t he?”

Even’s head hurts.

He misses Isak.

He misses Isak so much it hurts.

0010.

“Astrophysics?”

Isak nods through a bite of his pizza, and Even shakes his head.

“Fuck off.”

“Uh, no, you fuck off.”

“You first,” Even grins. “You’re an astrophysicist, Isak. I’m literally sitting across from genius
right now and all I can offer is Oscar-bait talk.”

Isak shrugs. “It’s interesting to hear,” he assures Even, which causes him to roll his eyes. “Really,
it is! I don’t know much about movies — or pop culture in general. Not since high school,
anyway.”

“When was the last time you went to the cinema?”

Isak pauses, and his eyes drift upwards as if to think about it. “Uhm.”

“If you can’t remember, it’s been too long.”

“You’re probably right,” Isak nods, then takes another bite out of his pizza. Through a mouthful,
he continues, “I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, with the astrophysics and stuff,” Even laughs. “Like one presumably would be.”

“I haven’t slept a wink since I was eighteen years old.”

“That’s dangerous,” Even warns. “And you’re about to be a doctor, you should know.”
Isak shakes his head. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“Don’t remind you about your doctorate? The one you’re working towards? The thesis you’re
writing? Should we just let that be an elephant in this 50s-inspired room?”

Isak looks around the restaurant. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Because you were thinking about your doctorate?”

Isak huffs a laugh, and his cheeks tinge a pretty red. “It’s just — usually all I think about now.”

Even tilts his head. “What is your research about?” he asks, and Isak shrugs.

“It’s — complicated,” he starts slowly. “Not something I’m allowed to talk about too freely, I’m
afraid.”

Even purses his lips. “I get it.”

“But — I can say it’s got a lot to do with time,” he offers Even as a last resort. “And its properties.”

“How do you mean?”

Isak hums. “Do you think time is linear?”

Even freezes. He feels cold.

“Uhm — what?”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “Time. Do you think it’s linear?”

Even blinks quickly. And quicker. It feels familiar.

“I—” Even shakes his head. “I mean, yeah. It’s all we’ve ever known, right?”

Isak nods. “Yes,” he agrees. “But we don’t know what the shape of space and time is, exactly. Not
really. We have theories,” he explains. “As scientists, that’s all we have. Theories. And we’re
limited, here and now, to the technology we’ve discovered, right?” Even nods along. “So —
suppose time is just — flat. It’s flat, and so it goes on forever and ever and ever. There isn’t an end
to it. And spread across the endless array of the shape of time and space, would be more than one
universe,” he continues. “Endless. Each composed of every single choice ever made. So if you
think of it from that angle — with that theory — universes would start repeating themselves,
right?”

Even’s sure Isak’s right, so he simply nods again. Isak nods with him as he continues. “Right.
Because particles can only be put together in so many ways. So there are universes out there that
are just repeating themselves over and over, caught in something like — a bubble,” Isak settles on.
“But with that we’d enter more eternal inflation territory, which could operate on a whole different
level.”

Even takes this in for a moment, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. “So,” he sets the pizza back
down on his plate. “You’re saying that — eventually universes would stop expanding?” he tries,
and Isak nods slowly. “So some universes are just repeating.”

“With slight differences.”

“So time would be—”

Isak shrugs lightly. “Pointless,” he explains. “If you’re not expanding, then it’s just pointless.”

Even scratches the back of his head. “Huh,” he grins slightly. “Sounds really fucking
complicated.”

Isak bites his lip, but he preens a little, too. “I’ve been looking into these theories my entire life,”
he admits. “Just — the laws we’ve been fed all our lives. There’s an entire universe out there we
haven’t explored, and to think that there could be more than one — is really fucking cool.”

Even huffs. “What would you do, if you discovered all these universes?”

Isak thinks about it. “It depends,” he admits. “On whether I was stuck or not.”

“And how would you fix that?”

Isak pauses. “Find a fixed point.”

Even frowns. “A what?”

Isak throws a pepperoni at Even’s face. “Why aren’t we talking about your movies?”

But it feels important they talk about Isak’s theories.

“What’s a fixed point?”

“Elvis on the wall,” Isak nods at a framed picture of the late singer beside him. “Should have
tipped me off to the era.”

What’s a fixed point?

“You know I’m gonna kiss you by the end of tonight,” Even says instead, very quietly, and Isak
meets his eyes, raises his eyebrows.

“Is that so?”

Even nods. “I’m positive.”

Isak smiles softly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

1639.

Isak hangs up the phone.

“That was Jonas,” he sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “He needs me to go over and help
him with a bookshelf.”

Even looks at the time. 21:21.

“At this hour?” he asks, puzzled. “Why not tomorrow?”

“Eva comes home tomorrow morning, apparently,” Isak replies as he reaches for the coat on the
sofa. “And he’d promised her it’d be up by the time she came back.”

“And it’s not.”

“It is not, no,” Isak smirks, and walks over to Even. He leans down to press a soft kiss against his
lips, and Even’s heart soars and his lips freeze and it feels like the first time.
“Don’t go,” Even says suddenly and urgently as his boyfriend pulls away. Isak rolls his eyes.

“I won’t be long, Even.”

“It’s pouring out,” he insists. “It’s dangerous to drive in these conditions.”

“I’ll take the tram.”

“The tram driver is driving, either way.”

Isak looks at Even quizzically. “They’ve driven in these conditions a million times before.”

Even’s heart is racing a hundred miles a minute. “Just stay,” he pleads. “Tell Jonas to call Magnus
or something. Let’s watch this stupid movie tonight and then go to bed.”

“Even,” Isak frowns. “Are you okay?”

Is he okay?

“I don’t want you to go.”

Isak shakes his head. “Uhm,” he says intelligently. “Baby, I won’t — it’s Jonas, you know? He’s
helped us out of tight spots before.”

Even looks at the front door. Keep it closed. Keep it closed. Keep it closed.

“I just have—” What? What does he have?

Isak shakes his head and smiles, amused. “I’m going,” he tells Even, firmly but kindly. “I’ll be
back before midnight, alright? We can watch the movie then. It’s Saturday, for God’s sake, it’s not
like we’ll be doing much else tomorrow, either.”

They’re not going to be doing anything tomorrow.

Don’t walk out that door.

“Okay,” Even hears himself say. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Isak replies as he grabs his keys off the counter. He’s walking towards the door
when he calls back, “I’ll see you later.”

Even keeps staring at the door. Uselessly. Fearfully.

Don’t walk out that door.

Isak opens the door, and he walks out of it.

He closes the door behind him.

0485.

Even holds Isak tightly to him.

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters for the hundredth time, and Isak laughs into Even’s neck and shakes his
head.

“No, I’m sorry,” he replies. “I was stupid. This was stupid. You were right. I was hiding it. I was.”
His dad. That’s right. Isak’s dad came back in the picture, and he’d been meeting Isak in secret, and
when Even confronted him about it, Isak would refuse to tell him what had been happening. Isak’s
dad, the man who kicked him out when he was sixteen and refused to accept his son was gay and
made him feel all of the things no one should ever feel so young.

“It was none of my business,” Even insists.

“Knowing what you know about him — I get it. I just — I forget, sometimes,” he whispers, and
Even pulls away to meet his gaze.

“Forget what?”

“How much you know about me,” he replies, just as quietly as before. “How much you care about
me.”

Even laughs mirthlessly. “I’m sorry I haven’t shown it as much as I should have.”

Isak shakes his head once. “You show it plenty,” he assures Even. “It’s just — something I’m still
getting used to, and I just — I love you.”

“I love you.”

Isak gestures towards the bouquet of sad-looking pink carnations on the counter. “I don’t know
why I attempt to make everything up with carnations.”

Even laughs once, blinking away tears welling up at his eyes. “Not always,” he reminds Isak. “You
gave me roses on our anniversary.”

Isak looks at Even, bemused. “No,” he laughs once. “I gave you carnations.”

Even shakes his head. “Red roses,” he insists. “I remember it like it was yesterday. They were red
roses.”

“No,” Isak laughs again, and it seems like he’s not bothered by this at all. Instead, he pulls out his
phone and sniffs as he swipes across the screen. After a moment, Isak turns the phone over to
Even, and shows him an Instagram picture Even uploaded on their anniversary. They’re of man-
handled pink carnations, and the caption reads cheesy and annoying, even for him. “Pink
carnations, see? I remember specifically because the stupid man in front of me took one of the last
bouquets — which, hah, hey, weirdly enough were red roses — and so I only had the pink
carnations to choose from.”

Even shakes his head. “Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Yeah, obviously. Sorry, I’m just — my head,
you know?” he gestures lamely at his head. “Not screwed on right. Not tonight.”

Isak grimaces, but his expression looks guilty. “I can tell you everything now, if you’d like,” he
offers Even quietly. Even looks at Isak, and he’s so tall, and he’s so beautiful, and he’s so
vulnerable, and he’s just here. He’s here, oh God, he’s here, and why did it feel like he wasn’t
going to be ever again?

Even reaches out and pulls him in for another hug. This time it’s tighter, more desperate. “That’s
okay,” he shakes his head once. “I just want to hold you.”

1645.

Sana walks out of her office, a guarded expression on her face. It softens only slightly at the sight
of Even in the waiting room.

“Even,” she greets him kindly, pitifully, but Even doesn’t have time for this. He jumps up from the
chair he’s been sitting on and walks straight towards Sana. He must look insane, must look frantic,
but at the moment, he is, and he feels so.

“I need to see his research,” Even demands as soon as he’s within earshot of Sana. Sana blinks at
him.

“What?”

“Isak. His research. His thesis. I need to see it.”

Sana purses her lips disapprovingly. “Even — even if I could show it to you, you wouldn’t
understand most of it. It’s all scientific jargon.”

“Okay,” Even nods once. “Then you translate it for me.”

Sana continues to look at him. “Even,” she whispers. “I know it’s been hard on you — it’s been
hard on me, too — but doing this — looking through his work, it’s not going to bring him back.”

“Sana,” Even looks her straight in the eye. “When did you and I meet?”

Sana blinks. “Uhm, okay,” she shakes her head. “The first time you came over to my house to visit
Elias when we were kids?”

“I don’t remember that,” Even explains. “I can’t remember that. I can’t remember anything before
Isak.”

Sana’s posture softens. “Listen, Even, it’s going to feel that way for a while—”

“No, Sana, no,” he speaks over her. “You’re not getting it. I’m not speaking metaphorically. I
literally cannot remember anything before Isak. Nothing.”

Sana blinks at him, unamused.

“Sana? Nothing. Not a bit. I think — I think I’m literally lost without him.”

Sana licks her lips and glances at the receptionist, who’s doing a shitty job of hiding her interest in
the conversation. With a curt nod, Sana invites him inside the private hallway, and they begin to
walk towards Isak’s — hers. Only hers. Her office.

Once the door is closed behind them, Sana turns to Even with her arms crossed. “You’re not
making any sense.”

Even laughs, no humor tracing his tone. “You don’t think I fucking know that?” he asks. “I feel
like — like I’m going crazy, Sana. And not in the way I usually do—”

“You’re not crazy—”

“But actually batshit insane, okay?”

Sana pauses. “What exactly is happening?”

1212.
Oh, fuck this.

“Next time we’re hiring movers,” Even grunts as he finally puts down the couch inside the house.
Elias flips him off as Yousef nods his head in agreement.

“Should have thought of that before you made us all move your shit into this house,” Yousef points
out.

“I’m feeding you, aren’t I?”

“Isak is feeding us,” Elias corrects him. “You’re reaping the benefits.”

Even waves him off. “Alright, slide it over to the living room.”

Elias and Yousef turn over to the living room, which is sunken in by one step, then they turn to
glare at Even.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Elias whines.

“We could have just kept going, Even,” Yousef adds, far more patiently.

“Why? We can just slide it this way. Less effort.”

“You’re not sliding that couch,” Isak appears out of nowhere with a tea mug, glaring at Even as he
leans against the door frame that leads towards the backyard. “You’re going to ruin our floors
before we even have a chance to do it over something else that’s equally as stupid but much less
avoidable.”

Elias glares at Even some more. “See? Picking it up. Could have kept going. I hate you with all my
heart.”

“You love me,” Even grins brightly. “Besides, it’s practically your fault Isak and I met, so you
should be blaming nobody but yourself, pal.”

“I should have stopped you from walking into that bathroom, Isak,” Elias looks over at Isak, who
is simply smirking at the exchange. “We could have all saved ourselves a lot of back pain.”

“We would have met anyway,” Isak replies, and he sounds so absolutely sure of it Even wants to
burst and kiss him all over.

“Oh, no,” Yousef groans. “He’s got bedroom eyes.”

“I’m out,” Elias holds up his hands and steps away from the couch. “I can’t be here when Even
inevitably shoves his tongue down Isak’s throat in front of us.”

Even shrugs. “Your loss, really.”

Isak shakes his head. “It’s okay, Elias. I won’t let him scar you anymore.”

“Liar!” Elias proclaims, walking towards the front door. “I won’t fall for that one again!”

Yousef rolls his eyes and follows Elias to the entrance. “I’m his ride,” he explains. “You guys can
handle the couch?”

Even laughs and nods. “Yep,” he promises. “Thank you for the help, guys. Really. I appreciate
you.”
“Me, too,” Isak calls from across the room.

“Isak, too.”

Elias salutes them both then turns and leaves. Yousef waves a hearty goodbye and turns to leave,
too. They close the door behind them, and then—

It’s just Isak and Even, and it’s just their new home, and it’s beautiful and quiet and all their own.

Isak walks around the living room, taking in every single detail of it, just as Even takes in every
single detail of Isak.

“It’s beautiful,” Isak suddenly whispers. “It’s ours.”

“It’s home,” Even adds, and Isak meets his gaze lovingly enough so that Even’s heart feels
constrained. “It’s our home.”

Isak walks over to Even and, after putting his mug down on the decorative dresser beside them,
wraps his arms around Even’s neck and pulls him closer.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Isak whispers, and Even grins.

“Please.”

0010.

When they pull away, Isak’s face is flushed and Even’s pretty sure he has only now seen colors for
the first time.

“I told you I’d kiss you by the end of tonight,” he whispers, and Isak smiles.

“I always believed you.”

1645.

“Even?”

Even looks up to meet Sana’s concerned gaze. When he comes back to, he realizes he’s still sitting
in what used to be Isak’s favorite chair — Even remembers asking him three years into their
relationship if he’d ever buy a new one, and Isak refusing, because for some reason he had such an
inexplicable loyalty to an inanimate object.

He’s in the office he’d come to both hate and love — hate because it took Isak away from him for
too long sometimes, love because Isak loved it, Isak loved spending time here, loved coming in
here and discovering things he didn’t know the day prior — Even hates the place that Isak
disappeared into for so long, but he loves it for making him happy when Even wasn’t there to.

Perhaps this is how Isak could find such inexplicable loyalty to a chair. Even feels indebted to this
room.

“Even,” Sana calls again, and this time Even blinks quickly, bringing his brain back into the
moment.

“Yeah?”

Sana silently considers him for a moment, before tilting her head to the side in concern. “What
exactly is happening?”

Even shakes his head. “Isak — he told me about, uhm—” he clears his throat to stall for time. It’s
hard to remember, even now, about all the things Isak’s ever talked to him about. Especially when
in the moment they were so mundane, but seem so relevant now. Or were they relevant then, too?
“Time. Time maybe being flat?”

Sana’s expression betrays absolutely nothing, which Even’s always admired. “Okay.”

“He said that’s kind of what his research was about,” he continues. “About there being — multiple
universes, existing all throughout time, and that some, uhm — some would stop expanding, so a lot
of them would just repeat themselves.”

Sana nods once in acknowledgment.

“So time would be pointless, then.” Even tries. “In a universe like that.”

Sana nods once again.

“Pointless enough that — someone’s death wouldn’t really be — permanent.”

Sana’s expression suddenly warps from stoic to understanding, and then the pity comes back. The
pity everyone’s been offering Even since he heard, since they told him. The pity he’s been trying to
avoid since it started. The pity people think is doing him a favor, but really it’s slowly pulling at
Even’s stitches, helping him come loose. The pity that’s only here to remind him of everything
he’s to be pitied for.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Even,” Sana hesitates for a moment. “Those — they were all theories,” she explains. “That’s all
it’s always been. Theories. We’ve never had any definitive proof.”

Even looks up. “We?”

Sana bites her bottom lip, almost as if she’s trying to catch herself before she says any more. “I
think — maybe you need to find help, Even.”

“I’m not making this up.”

“I believe you,” Sana replies kindly. “I believe that you believe it’s true.”

1650.

“I wouldn’t have believed you, you know,” Sana tells him, and Even is holding tightly to Isak’s
toothbrush. He looks up.

“What?”

“I wouldn’t have believed any of this was possible if you hadn’t told me about Yousef.”

Even’s looks around. He and Sana are in his bathroom. It’s been almost a week since he lost Isak,
almost a week of enduring this silent, empty, horrible house that he once called home. It’s
impossible to now, without Isak here. He realizes this house, and everything they built here, isn’t
what made it home — Isak is what made it home.

“What about Yousef?” he asks, meeting Sana’s gaze.

Sana nods once. “Right,” she eyes him curiously. “Right.”

Even shakes his head. “What?”

“You told me about how we first kissed,” Sana reminds Even quietly. “On top of the ferris wheel.
In high school. We were stuck up there and it just — happened. We’d never told a soul,” she tells
him. “We never even brought it up ourselves, afterwards.”

“Right,” Even nods. “Because you didn’t get together until after college.”

Sana licks her lips. “Yeah,” she nods. “Do you remember? How you told me on Monday?”

It’s Friday.

“Yeah,” Even replies quietly. “Yeah.”

1645.

“You and Yousef,” Even says suddenly, and Sana’s eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Excuse me?”

“Your first kiss,” Even explains. “Your first kiss was in high school. On top of the ferris wheel.
You were stuck up there and it just happened and you’ve never told a single soul. You never even
brought it up yourselves, because — because you didn’t get together until after college.”

Even can count on one hand the times he’s seen Sana absolutely shocked into silence. In fact, he
can count the times on one single finger — this. This is what Sana looks like when she’s shocked
into silence.

And then Sana looks quite the same when she’s shocked into anger. That’s a little dangerous,
maybe. “Who told you that?” she snaps. “Did Yousef tell you that?”

Even stands up. “No,” he shakes his head furiously. “You did.”

“I never did.”

“On Friday,” he insists, and Sana scoffs.

“I wasn’t with you on Friday, Even. You haven’t let anyone see you since the funeral.”

“Not last Friday,” Even corrects her. “This Friday. This coming Friday.”

Sana stares at him. “That’s not—”

“Possible,” Even agrees. “It’s not possible.”

1297.

“Why?” Even calls out dramatically from the bathroom. “Why do you insist on doing this to the
toothpaste, Isak?”

“Doing what?” Isak peeks in from the bedroom. “What am I doing to the toothpaste?”

Even holds it up and shows it to him. “It’s folded,” he replies, and Isak blinks wordlessly at Even.
“Why.”
Isak scoffs. “So we can squeeze out every bit of toothpaste, Even,” he tells him. “Otherwise it’s
just a waste.”

“What about just squeezing from the bottom, huh,” Even raises an eyebrow as he unfolds the tube
and begins to demonstrate his point. “Wow. Amazing. Toothpaste is rising.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “You’re so fucking particular,” he says offhandedly, then he turns around and
walks back into the bedroom. Even squawks indignantly.

“Stop folding the toothpaste!” he calls out.

“Not a chance!”

1643.

Even drops a new tube of toothpaste into the cup beside the sink. The folded tube sits in the trash
can, still.

1645.

Sana has been silent for about five entire minutes. They’ve stretched on for what feels like an
eternity, but Even is giving her the opportunity to think — because even if she did speak to him,
even if she did ask what was happening, he wouldn’t have an answer for her. Not one that would
make any sense, in any case, and not one that would satisfy her obvious burning curiosity.

It’s halfway into the sixth minute when Sana finally speaks. “So you think you’re time traveling.”

Even grimaces. It sounds so juvenile, to say it that way, but—“Essentially, yeah.”

Sana shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s what’s happening.”

“Uh,” Even blinks. “Then explain why I’m jumping so much.”

Sana stands from where she’d taken a seat across from Even and quickly walks over to the filing
cabinets. Pulling one open, she begins to sift through countless manilla folders, all seemingly color-
coded and labeled with words that are too small for Even to make out from here. Finally, she seems
to find what she’s looking for, and she pulls out a blue manilla folder swiftly before slamming the
drawer closed again. As she opens the folder and leafs through the pages inside, she’s walking
back to where Even’s sitting on the other side of the office.

“If we ever assumed our theories were correct — which we did often, by the way — Isak and I
knew there was no possible way we could prove anything without travel,” she explains, taking a
seat across from Even again without removing her gaze from the folder in front of her. “Because if
there are different versions of us, several versions of us, we’ll all be living in ignorance, unaware of
the bigger picture, because there’s no way our consciousness could inhabit more than one of us at a
time.”

“Okay,” Even replies, mostly because he feels like he should.

“So — you only have one consciousness,” Sana explains, finally looking up from the folder. “This
is the consciousness most of us base our research on. Uhm, scientists trying to figure out how to
upload a consciousness into an A.I., for example, or into an inanimate object. This is — it’s what
feels most real to you,” she explains.

Even frowns. “So — if we only have one consciousness, how would more than one of us exist?”
“They just do,” Sana shrugs. “Like they’re on auto-pilot. I could be on auto-pilot, for example. My
consciousness could be inhabiting any other Sana in the infinite universes that exist around us, and
I wouldn’t know it. But that’s why there’s only one consciousness — so time remains linear to us,”
she continues. “So there’s not — jumping, like you call it. So that we don’t live out multiple lives
at once.”

Even opens his mouth, then closes it. “I don’t get it.”

Sana considers Even for a moment. “I don’t think you’re time traveling, Even,” she finally replies.
“I think your consciousness is jumping between universes.”

Even blinks again. “Uhm, no.”

“Listen—”

“It’s not, Sana,” he scoffs. “Time travel makes more sense! Nothing’s different. I’m living out the
same life I had with Isak, Sana. Over and over. There’s the one life I had with him, and that’s it.”

Sana shakes her head. “That’s not it, though,” she insists. “Have you noticed any discrepancies
between your moments?”

Even pauses. “Like?”

“Details,” she elaborates. “Small ones, even. Different kind of soda in the fridge. A different
colored couch, maybe.”

“Carnations,” Even replies quietly, and Sana’s eyebrows rise.

“Carnations?”

“I remember Isak giving me roses for our first anniversary,” he explains. “But later, he — they
were carnations. Not roses.”

Sana nods eagerly. “Okay,” she nods. “Yeah, see, there. That’s a discrepancy. Those are two
different universes.”

Even bites his lip. “Or I’m just forgetful?”

“Does it feel like you forgot?” Sana asks firmly. “Or does it feel like you remembered wrong?”

Even is silent again.

“I thought so,” Sana continues without waiting for Even to speak up. “It’s almost like — like
you’re — maybe you’re — what did he say,” Sana sighs irritably, opening up the folder again and
throwing papers she immediately deems useless on the floor around them. “It’s the eternal inflation
theory, where—”

“Particles can only be put together in so many ways,” Even finishes for her, understanding. “So
some universes would stop expanding, and eventually start repeating — with slight differences.”

Sana looks up. “Yes,” she nods vigorously. “Exactly. I think you’re in a bubble.”

Even stares at her. “Why?”

Sana laughs once in disbelief, shakes her head. “I think—” she shakes her head again, this time
more forcefully. “I think your consciousness may be looking for Isak.”
1639.

The knocks on the door are both aggressive and hesitant.

Even stares at the door. They’d only recently painted it white. Isak had told him they needed to
paint the entire house white — that it’d make it look bigger, he’d said. That it would seem like it’s
expanding. And Even went along with it because he loves Isak, and he’d give Isak anything he
wanted. Anything at all.

The knocks become more persistent.

Even shakily sets down the book he’s been reading on the coffee table. Every step he takes
towards the door feels like led, sounds like the loudest sound in the universe. And he already
knows what’s going to happen. He already knows what they’re going to say to him. He already
knows that as soon as he opens the door, the blue and red lights are going to blind him, and the two
police officers are going to be looking at him with sympathy and pity and they’re going to confirm
what he already knows. What he knew before Isak even stepped out of that door two hours ago.

He already knows. He already knows.

When he opens the door, the lights blind him, and the police officers offer their condolences. In a
cruel twist of irony, Even notices it’s stopped raining outside.

Even shakes his head. “No,” he laughs mirthlessly. “What is this?”

The officers exchange a glance. “Listen, if you’d like, we can—”

“Get off of my property,” Even replies, and he doesn’t think he sounds hostile — pleading, mostly.
He thinks he sounds pleading. “Please leave me alone.”

The officers hesitate for a second. “We can—”

“Leave,” Even snaps. “Leave.”

They leave, and Even closes the door behind him, and the pain feels like no other pain he’s faced
before, and what’s worse, it feels familiar — it feels so fucking familiar.

He shakes his head. This can’t be happening again. This can’t be happening again.

“Isak,” he sobs, walking up the stairs, taking two at a time. He slams their bedroom door open.
“Isak.” He calls again loudly, throwing the duvet off the bed, opening the bathroom door. He’s
here. He has to be here. He still has to be here.

Even runs a hand through his hair desperately. “Isak,” he half-cries, half-shouts, walking out of
their bedroom and towards the laundry room. He opens the door and finds it empty. “Come on,
Isak, come on,” he yells, slamming that door closed, too. He opens closets. He opens the guest
bedroom. The guest bathroom. He searches the kitchen. He searches the living room. And he keeps
insisting Isak is still here, he’s still here, he’s still here.

But he’s not. The house is empty and Isak is dead. And it doesn’t matter where he stands, what day
it is, Isak is gone. Isak is gone. The future looks so bleak, it looks so dark, and it doesn’t have Isak.
Isak left him. Isak walked out that door, and Even let him, even though he knew exactly what was
going to happen. He knew exactly what was going to happen.

Even breaks some things. He thinks he does, anyway. One second, he’s blinking, and the next
there are glass shards all around him. He runs to their backyard and yells Isak’s name again, but no
one replies. No one answers. He’s not here.

He sits on the wet grass and he presses his forehead to his knees and he sobs, and he sobs, and he
sobs. There’s no point to this without Isak. There’s no point to this.

“Where are you,” he sobs quietly to himself, and it’s not a question, because no one can answer. He
just wants to know. He just wants to know.

1645.

“But he’s dead,” Even sobs, and it feels like he’s living it over again. “How can it be looking for
Isak when he’s dead?”

“You said so yourself,” she replies. “In a world where time is flat, where universes are endless, it’s
all pointless enough so that someone’s death isn’t permanent.”

“So then?”

“It’s looking to break out of the bubble, Even,” Sana replies. “It’s looking for a universe where
Isak is still alive, and time is linear again.”

0010.

“What’s a fixed point?”

Suddenly it seems more important than before. Isak looks back from the Elvis framed from the
wall and tilts his head. “Sorry?”

“You said you’d find a fixed point. What’s that?”

“Oh,” Isak nods and strips his pizza of another slice of Canadian bacon. “Like — the one moment
in a loop that’s the same every time.”

“What kind of same?” Even insists. Isak hums.

“Like, the same place, the same time, always. Where the details may vary, but nothing else does.”

Even thinks about this. “How would you know it’s the right one?”

Isak laughs. “I wouldn’t,” he admits. “But I’d definitely take a guess?”

Even takes in Isak’s pointed nose, his jaw, his eyes. His eyes. They look so much greener from
here, under this lighting. He’s so beautiful. He’s so beautiful.

“Is that how you’d break out of a universe you were stuck in? Just find a fixed point?”

Isak licks his lips. “I haven’t gotten that far into my research,” he admits. “But — if I were stuck in
one universe—”

“Or more than one,” Even interrupts. Isak frowns.

“What?”

“Maybe different versions of the same one.”

“Sure,” Isak laughs. “If I were stuck in different versions of the same universe, I’d find a fixed
point—”

“Yep, you said that.”

“So then why are you asking?”

“How would you get unstuck, Isak?” Even leans forward, looks him dead in the eye. “How would
you break out of it?”

Isak thinks about this for a moment, then shrugs easily. “I’d find a fixed point,” he repeats for the
hundredth time. “And then I’d choose it.”

1645.

Even thinks about this. He thinks harder and harder.

“Isak told me about a fixed point, once,” he says quietly, looking up at Sana. Sana’s face clears at
the words, then she nods firmly.

“A fixed point in time. The constant variable.”

“How does that help me?” he asks her, and Sana hums as she drops another folder onto the table
and walks towards the filing cabinet to look for another. As she does so, she continues to speak to
Even, sounding — impressively so — both calming and excited.

“It never changes,” she explains. “Or — it does, but not the same way everything else does. So,
whatever happens, always happens on the same day, at the same time. Never a minute later, never a
minute before. Like — no matter what decisions you made differently, the same outcome is always
born.”

Even licks his lips. He almost feels like Isak would know what this “fixed point” is immediately —
like if he were still here, he’d know it in a second, and he’d tell Even, and he would help Even find
him. It’d be the first thing he would do — he would help Even find him.

He shakes his head, a little frustrated. “I don’t know if I have one,” he admits as Sana pulls out a
new manilla folder and starts walking back towards him. “Besides, it’s not like I’m looking at the
time whenever something important happens.”

Sana shakes her head and opens up the folder once she slaps it down on the desk beside them.
“You don’t have to,” she assures Even, and he watches as her eyes scan every single word on the
documents before her quickly and effectively. Then, she smiles slightly, carefully picking up a
yellow-tinted paper. She hands it to Even, smugly, but when Even attempts to make sense of it, he
can’t.

“What is this?” he asks, looking back up at Sana. “I don’t get it.”

Sana nods once. “A fixed point in time is usually when it all began,” she explains quietly, her smile
now more kind than smug. “Isak theorized that just — maybe a week before we—” Sana clears her
throat, looking uncomfortable as her gaze breaks away from Even’s. “Before we lost him.”

Even looks down at the paper in his hands again.

When it all began.

“What, so like — when I was born?”

Sana shakes her head and takes a seat in front of Even once again. Without looking at the paper,
she points with her index finger to it — Even doesn’t follow it, though, and like Sana, looks into
her warm brown eyes rather than at the paper.

“Your memories,” she explains quietly. “The first thing you can remember. You can find a fixed
point in time in an inescapable universe by finding the first thing you remember.” Even feels his
face clear. Then he laughs once, almost in disbelief.

“The bathroom,” he offers in a whisper.

Sana nods. “The bathroom.”

1650.

In the days leading up to Friday, Even finds himself far more centered than he’s been in the last
couple of days.

It’s strange, because he’s forgetting things, but not everything. Sana calls him every day, asking
questions about his experiences, then asking them again ten minutes later in order to make sure
she’s gotten them down right — she’s looking for a way to help Even break out of the bubble, find
his way back to the bathroom that very first day and end the loop, and she’s been putting aside the
more important parts of her research in favor of helping Even, for which he knows he will be
eternally grateful.

Every new phone call brings about new hope, which is quickly crushed when Sana assures Even
she’s just calling to ask another question, and then she hangs up and they rinse and repeat, rinse
and repeat.

Then it’s Friday morning, and Sana’s knocking at his door. When Even opens it, she looks a little
off-put, her hijab slightly crooked, but her eyes are bright and hopeful, and that’s all Even needs to
know, really.

He steps aside to allow her inside and she puts down a large pile of folders on the decorative
dresser beside the entrance before turning around to look at Even. “I got it,” she breathes excitedly,
and something in Even’s heart both stops and starts. “I think I know how to get you back there
willingly.”

Even gestures towards the living room. “Please,” he says, voice cracking slightly. Sana shakes her
head, however.

“Your room,” she demands, then she turns around and makes her way upstairs without a second
thought. Even hesitates for a second, before following her upstairs and into his bedroom — their
bedroom — and then he hovers by the doorframe as Sana opens drawers and closes them and
inspects every single inch of the room.

“What’s going on?” Even asks, and Sana looks up at him.

“I need something used by Isak very frequently,” she answers. “As an anchor.”

Sure. An anchor. That makes no sense to Even, but—“His toothbrush is in the bathroom,” he
suggests. “Used that three times a day.” He had the folded toothpaste tub in the trash, still, to prove
it.
Sana nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, that’ll probably do,” she mutters, almost to herself, then turns
her back to Even and walks towards the bathroom. She pushes the door open and walks inside,
calling out for Even to follow her.

Even does.

When they’re inside, Sana is holding out the green toothbrush towards Even. Even smiles and
shakes his head, grabbing the toothbrush.

“That’s mine,” he says, putting the toothbrush back into the cup. He then grabs the blue one beside
it, tightens his grip on it. It almost feels like him, Even thinks, and that’s probably the most
ridiculous thought that’s crossed his mind the entire week. “This is his,” he clears his throat and
blinks furiously.

Sana nods. “When you jump,” she begins. “You’re thinking about him, right?” Even nods. “I think
about him all the time.”

“Right,” Sana smiles ruefully. “And sometimes that — I think that that fiery longing is enough to
jump you back and forth, but I think you could control it fairly well if you have an anchor.
Something that was Isak’s without a doubt, something that was touched by him all the time.”

Even looks at her. “And this is a theory?”

Sana nods. “A modified one,” she explains. “From Isak’s files.”

Even bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know, Sana,” he laughs once. “It sounds kind of —
ridiculous?”

Sana crosses her arms over her chest and raises a judgmental eyebrow at Even. “And you think this
entire thing isn’t a little bit ridiculous?” she asks, and, well, she’s got a fair point.

Even takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he nods. “So. I hang on to his toothbrush. Then what?”

Sana nods. “You think about him,” she says. “A lot. Enough that it makes you miss him. But be
sure to focus on the day you met,” she adds quickly. “That’s the day you want to get back to.”

Even thinks it sounds too easy. It’s got to be harder than that, hasn’t it? “What if I get there?” he
asks quietly, stroking Isak’s toothbrush and avoiding Sana’s gaze. “What do I do then?”

“Break it,” Sana replies. “Don’t live it over. Make sure you find a way out of it.”

“And then?”

Sana opens her mouth, then closes it. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Then — we’ll see.”

It’s all theories. As scientists, Isak had once told him, that’s all they have. “This is crazy,” Even
whispers.

Sana snorts. “Understatement,” she says. “I wouldn’t have believed you, you know.”

Even looks up. “What?”

1650.

They’ve gravitated to the bed now. They’re both sitting on it, saying not one word. Even doesn’t
know when to start. Sana had suggested he fall asleep to the thought of Isak, with his toothbrush in
hand. He’s scared, though. He’s so scared that it might work and that he might fuck it up and that
he might never see Isak ever again, and this will be his life. This will always be his life. And he’ll
lose Isak again, and again, and again, and again.

So Sana offered to stay with him for a while longer before Even decided he would try to sleep.

“If my consciousness finds its way out of here,” Even speaks up suddenly. “That means I won’t
remember any of this, right?”

Sana is quiet for a moment. “Most likely,” she replies quietly. “Yeah.”

“So this Even — he’ll have to live without Isak.”

“He will,” Sana agrees. “So will I.”

Even bites his lip to keep it from quivering. “The world’s so unfair, huh?”

Sana seems to think about this for a second. “I think the world’s just mysterious,” she admits. “I
think it’s full of coincidences just as much as it’s filled with fixed points, and we’re never going to
know what’s going to happen, and we’re meant to just — take it as it is.”

Even looks at her. “So you think there’s no point to it?”

“Oh, no,” Sana smiles slightly. “The contrary. I think there’s a point to everything. From the
smallest losses to the biggest ones. From the smallest jobs to the more lucrative ones. I think
there’s a point to everything and everyone.”

“But we don’t have a say.”

“Not all of us,” Sana replies. “But some of us are lucky enough to.” She looks pointedly at him.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he assures her, and Sana laughs quietly.

“I know that, idiot,” she rolls her eyes. “But isn’t it funny?”

Even looks at her curiously. “What is?”

“What’s happening to you — what you’re able to do — it was his life’s work,” she explains. “It’s
like he found you on purpose. Or — maybe like the universe knew it would happen,” she smiles.
“Almost like there was a point to this. To his death.”

Even’s throat closes up. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept any reason for his death.”

“And maybe that’s why you get to find him again,” Sana offers. “And maybe that’s why I get to
stay here and know this.”

“So it’s almost like I’ll die, too,” he tries to make sense of it. “Once I’m out of here.”

“You know, in Islam — we believe death is just the beginning of a new life,” she smiles at him.
“And it’s never been clearer to me that that’s just what it is than it is right now.”

Even nods and swallows a little easier than before. “If it works — will you tell me — him — will
you tell him everything?”

Sana looks at Even. “You think you’ll believe me?”

Even bites his lip. “I think I’ll be so desperate to believe anything,” he admits. “The thought that
Isak’s still alive out there, somewhere — I think knowing that would be enough.”

“For that you.”

“For that me,” he nods. “I think this me can’t be that selfless.”

Sana laughs. “I’ll try,” she promises. “You’ve given me a reason to look into this again. You’ve
given me a reason to believe in what I’d given up on long before Isak finished his thesis.”

“He’d be so proud.”

Sana laughs again, but this time, it’s a little wetly, and her eyes are filling with tears. “Yeah, he
would be,” she sniffles slightly. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll see you again someday. This you.”

Even reaches out to squeeze her hand. “I know you will,” he promises. “If anyone can find me
again, it’s you.”

Sana tilts her head. “Thank you.”

Even thinks for a second. “Wait.” Without releasing the toothbrush in his hand, Even reaches over
to the bedside table to grab a small notepad Isak used to write his dreams on upon waking up, for
whatever reason. Even quickly makes his way to an empty page and, grabbing the pen that’s stuck
inside the pad’s binding, he writes something down on it.

He rips the paper out when he’s done and hands it to Sana. “Give me this,” he says. “If I’m gone
when I wake up. Give me this.”

Sana reads over the words and furrows her brows. “What does it mean?”

Even nods. “I’ll know,” he says. “And maybe I’ll believe you.”

Sana smiles. “Does this mean you’re ready?”

Even takes a deep breath and looks at the clock. It’s well past 21:00. He’s ready, he realizes, so he
nods his head. “I am.”

Sana looks him over one last time before reaching over to hug him tightly. Even wraps his arms
around her just as tightly. It’s funny — because he knows a hug from whatever Sana he’s going to
find on the other side will never be the same as a hug from this one. This one’s special. He doesn’t
think there’s a version of Sana out there that isn’t unique, just as he doesn’t think there’s a version
of himself out there that doesn’t find Isak.

When Sana pulls away, she sniffles, but nods as she pockets the notepad paper in her hoodie.
“Okay,” she whispers. “If you don’t call me by tomorrow morning, then I’ll just assume — you
found him,” she smiles. “Good luck, Even.”

Just as Sana’s about to step outside of his room, Even, calls out, “Sana.”

Sana turns around and looks at him expectantly.

“I’m sorry we never invited you for dinner.”

Sana laughs quietly and shakes her head.

“You did,” she promises. “Here, you did.”

1650.

Even finds his way under the covers once he turns all the lights off.

He hugs the toothbrush to his chest, feeling a little bit ridiculous.

And then he thinks about Isak, and the day he first met Isak, and allows sleep to pull him under.

0001.

Even opens his eyes.

The music inside the bathroom is muffled and distant, and he feels a little dizzy, but not in the
same way he has before when he’s drunk. Mostly, he’s disoriented — he looks down at his hands
and they’re empty. The blue toothbrush is gone. He realizes he’s sitting on the toilet he’d been
sitting on the very first day he’d met Isak, except sometimes he met Isak while sitting on it, and
others — others he was at the sink, or—

“I’m sending Mikael in ten minutes,” he hears Elias call from the bathroom door, and oh, God, it’s
worked. He’s here. And he’s aware he’s here. And if — if this follows what he thinks it—

Even scrambles up off the toilet and runs to the entrance, where the door is only now closing
entirely on Elias’s back.

Either Isak’s in the bathroom already and Even will see him when he walks outside, or he’s still not
in the bathroom and Even will see him—

Now.

The music is loud again, and the club lights are almost blinding, but there’s Isak — walking past
Elias, muttering what Even supposes is an apology, and for a second Even thinks he’s not going to
be able to move at all, because he looks so young, he looks so unassuming, and Even wishes the
universe would be kinder to a man who looks like that, someone who can love so unconditionally
and live so fearlessly.

Even quickly makes his way towards Isak before he reaches the bathroom. “Isak!” he calls out. He
doesn’t hear. So he tries again. “Isak!”

Isak pauses where he’s pushing past another patron and blinks up at Even, obviously confused. He
looks behind him, then back at Even, raising an eyebrow, pointing at himself. “Me?” he mouths,
and Even nods.

“Isak,” he breathes when he finally reaches him, a subtle distance between them. Isak still looks
puzzled.

“I’m sorry—” his mouth is open for a second as he looks around the loud and crowded club. “Do
we — do we know each other?”

Even laughs, and he can feel his throat close up and his eyes well with tears. For nearly five years,
he wants to say. I was going to marry you. I was going to start a family with you. We’re in love, he
wants to yell. We’re in love.

Instead, he reaches out a hand to run through Isak’s hair. Though he stiffens at the contact, Isak
doesn’t move back — it’s like he wants to be angry that Even’s taken such liberty, but like he
doesn’t know why it feels so familiar, or why he’s not pulling away like any normal person
should.

“I asked you once,” Even calls over the music, as his hand slides downward to caress Isak’s cheek.
“If you were real.”

Isak doesn’t say anything.

“You said you were, but you were wrong,” he laughs wetly. “You’re more than that. You are —
just beyond,” he sighs, echoing Isak’s words from years back. “I love you, Isak Valtersen.”

Isak’s expression is still puzzled, but there’s something there that almost wants to come through —
it’s like he can feel this. Like he can feel the history they’re going to live for five years. For
eternity.

Even looks up and sees Adam, Mikael and Mutta dancing ridiculously together somewhere to the
left, and Elias chatting up some girl, and Yousef sitting at the bar alone. He catches a glimpse of
Jonas and Magnus talking to Eva and another man, Mahdi sitting only two seats away from Yousef
at the bar, and Noora and Vilde singing along to the loud, obnoxious song playing through the
speakers.

They have no idea that their lives are all going to be intertwined tonight. They have no idea that
from hereon out, they’re connected. And the future is long, and bright, and flat, and infinite.

He looks back at Isak and strokes his cheek softly with the back of his thumb. Find a fixed point,
and choose it.

“Can I kiss you?” Even asks suddenly, and Isak looks taken aback.

“Uhm—” Isak shakes his head, but more in disbelief than rejection. Then—“…yeah,” he nods, and
he looks shocked at his own response. “That’d be nice?”

Even laughs, and he leans in, and kisses Isak right here.

0010.

And here.

0094.

And here.

0365.

And here.

0485.

And here.

1212.

And here.

1639.

And here.
1651.

Even’s eyes open slowly, groggily.

They begin adjusting to the light very slowly, and for a second, he’s disoriented. He almost forget
what he’s woken up from, because it feels it’s all been a dream — a mocking one, at that, but a
dream, nevertheless, and it’s like he can still feel Isak’s lips at different points in time against his,
always tasting different, always feeling the same.

He’s alive. He feels so. He remembers, then, what he’s waking up from, and he sits up in a hurry,
looking around, trying to find something different.

The room looks exactly the same as he’d left it last night. Nothing’s changed. He looks down and
realizes he’s still holding Isak’s toothbrush in his hand, and his heart falls to his stomach.

It didn’t work.

He’s still here.

Even bites his lip and takes a deep, shaky breath. Maybe he was never meant to get out of here.
Maybe he was simply meant to find the meaning to Isak’s death. Maybe this was a last gift from
the universe — just a last glimpse of his life with Isak.

Or maybe it had all been a dream, and Even is delusional to think it could have been anything other
than.

Playing with the toothbrush, he reaches over for his phone and sends Sana a quick text message,
sniffling back his absurd disappointment.

EVEN
It didn’t work.

He locks his phone and throws it on the bed. He kicks his legs over the bed and lets his feet touch
the cold floor before standing up and taking the toothbrush to the bathroom. Maybe it’s time to get
rid of it. Even thinks it’ll just be a fucking terrible reminder every time, anyway.

Without a second thought, Even drops the toothbrush in the trash.

He grabs the edge of the counter with his hands, grip tight and painful, and he stares at himself in
the mirror. He looks a mess. He wonders if he’ll ever stop looking a mess. He wonders if he’ll ever
feel human again without Isak around him.

He swallows harshly and reaches for his own toothbrush and wets it. He’s not going to cry. He’s
not going to allow himself to cry.

Everything has a point.

When he closes the knob, he reaches out for the toothpaste tube and clicks the top open, squeezing
what he can onto the brush and—

Even pauses.

He blinks and slowly lowers his toothbrush.

He looks at the toothpaste tube.

The toothpaste tube that’s folded over several times.

He drops both his toothbrush and the toothpaste when his phone dings from inside the bedroom
and he hurries over to grab it from the bed, unlock a message from Sana. His heart races miles a
minute when he reads the message.

SANA
What didn’t work???

Even drops his phone on the bed.

“Isak!” he calls out desperately, running out of the bedroom. “Isak!”

He runs down the stairs, following the smell of bacon and eggs.

“Isak!” he calls again, tripping over the last step on the way to the kitchen, but he hurries up and
runs over towards the kitchen. “Isak!” he yells one last time, before he stops at the opening arch of
the kitchen and—

0000.

Isak turns around to look at Even, blinking in surprise. “What?” he urges Even, and Even — Even
can’t say anything. Even doesn’t know what to say. “Even, what, is everything okay?” Isak drops
the cooking spoon he’d been holding and wipes his hands on the stupid apron Even had bought him
once two years into their relationship to hint at the idea that maybe they should both cook in this
relationship.

Even’s heart is in his throat now. It’s been traveling all over his body and it still hasn’t found its
way back to his chest but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it’s Isak, it’s Isak, and this is a new
memory. This is a new memory. This is something he hasn’t lived before. This is new. This is
after. He is here.

It worked.

He broke it.

He chose it.

It worked.

“Oh, my God,” Even sobs, and suddenly he’s running towards Isak and picking him up by the
waist and twirling him all around the kitchen. “Oh, my God, Isak, oh my God,” he’s still sobbing,
and Isak is tapping at his head obnoxiously.

“Jesus, Even, put me down, you maniac,” he laughs, but although he does, Even still pulls him into
a tight embrace. He inhales his scent. He smells new. Alive. Here. He’s here. He’s here.

“I missed you,” Even sobs into Isak’s neck. “I missed you so much, I love you, I love you.”

Even feels Isak stiffen for a second, then feels his arms wrap around Even’s waist. “Hey,” he
mutters, rubbing Even’s back comfortingly. “We’ve been apart for exactly an hour and a half, lazy
ass,” he teases, but he sounds sympathetic, and that’s his Isak, alright. Even doesn’t have to make
sense, not now, not ever — Isak will always find it for him.

“It felt like a lifetime,” Even laughs stupidly into Isak’s skin. “A lifetime.”
 Isak doesn’t say anything, simply continues to rub Even’s back soothingly. “Bad dream?” he
finally guesses kindly.

Even laughs again and simply nods. “Yeah,” he croaks. “A fucking nightmare.”

????.

He begins to forget maybe a week or two in.

There are pieces here and there. He’ll remember the Sana that helped him out when he was another
Even. He’ll remember the different ways they met. He’ll remember there having been roses and
carnations, once.

But it’s foggy. And day after day, it gets foggier. His consciousness is finally fusing with this
universe. There’s no more jumping — it’s not looking anymore. So most of his memories are
composed of things about this universe, moments he maybe hadn’t lived in the other ones. He
stops counting days. He starts living them, instead.

And though he continues to forget, one thing that doesn’t waver, one thing he always remembers, is
how Isak may very well be his beginning, his middle, and his end. Though he’ll never know how,
never know exactly why, this is the man he was made to know, made to love.

And perhaps that’s the one thing that will live on infinitely.

1651.

Elsewhere, a different Even is holding a familiar notepad paper in his hand, sitting across from a
nervous-looking Sana in his living room. The chicken scratch is his own, of course. There’s no
mistaking it. And it reads back to him:

Even—

You were going to title it “Infinity”.

And that’s where he’ll always exist.

Be happy,

—You.

End Notes

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