She leaves you for someone who cannot travel in time. “I’m sorry,” she says, “it’s just too hard. It’s too uncertain. It’s fun, when we travel together, but I feel like you’re never going to stop.”
You nod, swallowing furiously. You want to protest – say that you never knew she wanted to stop. That this is the first you’ve heard of her need to settle. But you spare her that. You nod and hug her tight against your body and then you jump ahead, leaving her behind. It’s a short jump – the shortest you’ve ever done. Just a decade or two.
In that nearby future she is happily married. Settled. A husband and two kids and a house in the suburbs. Everything she said she never wanted. You jump again, and she is old, her children grown. Retired. Ageing. You wait until she goes out to the shops and break into her house, searching desperately for some remembrance of you. A scrap book. A diary full of longing poetry. Even a photograph would be enough...
There is nothing. You search ever more frantically, not caring if you leave behind a trace. You search until you hear the front door open. You want to see her, but you know you cannot. You drop everything, and jump ahead in time. Far ahead. Far beyond.