Love Across Time
“I really wish you hadn’t said that.”
My statement catches you off guard—the serene expression on your face transforms into one of worry, and your eyes flick toward your time machine. It lies on the table by the door, two, perhaps two and a half meters away. You could cross that distance in under three seconds, grab the device, punch in the spatio-temporal coordinates, and disappear in a waft of ozone, but you stay put, your eyes on me, searching for the reason behind the sudden change of my demeanour.
“What do you mean?” you ask. Uncertainty seeps from your voice, but there is also a discernible hint of hopeful anticipation in it that tells me that deep down, you believe that whatever the issue is, it isn’t insurmountable.
I avert my gaze. For a few seconds, we sit in silence, you bracing for what I am going to say next, me battling the rising tide of contradicting emotions.
“We can’t change the timeline,” I say, stressing each word. “The past, the present, the future—none of it.”
A deep frown settles on your beautiful face.
“It is forbidden,” I continue. “Punishable.”
“I know,” you nod thoughtfully, and for a moment, I let myself believe that you truly understand.
What you say next, however, shatters that illusion into a myriad of tiny pieces.
“But I am not talking about stopping a war, preventing a plague, or saving thousands of people from a mass catastrophe. I am talking about one life, one objectively insignificant alteration that won’t in any way affect the course of history. An extra drop of water in the ocean. Nobody will ever find out.”
I take a deep breath and shake my head. You declared intent, exhibited conviction, leaving me no choice.
“They will know.” It comes out sounding more menacing than I intended.
You hesitate.
“How? How could they possibly—”
Your voice trails off as the realization spreads across your features.
I first spotted you in Paris in 1889. I knew immediately that you were a traveler—not on account of your clothing, which had been clearly carefully selected to suit the era, or your mannerisms that were impeccably replicated to seamlessly blend in, but because of that irrepressible glint of awe in your eyes that all those who only began visiting other time periods had. You still couldn’t believe that you were truly here, centuries in the past, the world around you as real and tangible as your own present. You would lose it eventually, after your tenth, twentieth, thirtieth trip, when you’d have seen all the events you were most interested in and choosing an exciting destination became progressively more difficult.
You noticed my gaze after a few moments. We locked eyes and—as cliché as it may sound—I felt an instant connection, a thread stronger than the universe itself solidifying between us. Your pupils going wide, I could tell that you felt some of that attraction too, yet as I moved towards you, you quickly turned around and rushed off.
I chased after you, but before I managed to catch up, you were gone. The only thing left in your wake was a slip of paper covered by words and symbols I wasn’t familiar with, weighed down with a small rock so that it couldn't be easily blown away by the wind. Even though I was unable to decipher the meaning of the content there and then, aside from a timestamp on its reverse side which read 10.03. 17:00, my momentary regret was instantly gone.
You wanted me to find you, and I was happy to follow your clue.
We first spoke, albeit briefly, in Brno in 1993. The paper turned out to be a ticket to a quarter-final ice hockey match between two rival teams, Sparta Praha and Kometa Brno, taking place in a multifunctional arena in the old town. I found you sitting in the uppermost row in a sector assigned to the fans of the hosting team—your attention appeared to be fixed on the game, though there was no doubt in my mind that you became aware of my presence the moment my eyes landed on you.
I sat down in an empty seat next to you—the only empty seat in the sector. You didn’t look at me, but I saw the corner of your mouth curve up in a smile. The late 20th-century clothing suited you even better than the attire from a hundred years ago, emphasizing your natural beauty, and I had to force myself to stop staring.
“Hello,” I said loudly to be heard over the cacophony of chanting fans, blaring horns, and the occasional sharp whistles of the referees.
“So who do you root for?” you asked, tilting your head towards mine but keeping your eyes on the rink. The game had just been paused on account of one of the players breaking some unknown rule.
“Ice hockey isn’t really my thing,” I replied dubiously. “But if I had to choose, the local players seem more likable.”
You laughed, showing perfect teeth.
“Good answer. I am not much of a fan myself either, but one of my ancestors is a defender for the home team. This is his last game here—last game ever, actually.”
“How come?”
“Car accident. He gets drafted into the NHL and is supposed to play for Toronto from the next season. Never gets the chance.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said somberly.
You nodded.
“Have you ever been there? Toronto, I mean.”
I shook my head.
“You should visit. The view from the CN Tower is breathtaking.”
“Are you from there?”
“How about I go grab us some grog?” you said, ignoring my question, and stood up. “You watch our seats and I’ll be right back.”
I was slightly perplexed by your decision—according to the huge cubical display suspended above the ice, the current period had begun barely a couple of minutes ago—but I assented, and you briskly walked away to the nearest exit. Only as the horn announced an intermission and whole crowds of fans shot up from their seats in unison, heading into the innards of the stadium to no doubt obtain a refill and another portion of the highly processed smoked meat with bread, the smell of which permeated the air, did I realize that you weren’t really coming back.
Was our game still on? I looked around your seat, but couldn’t find any physical clue that would point me in the right direction. Doubt crept in—perhaps I had left a wrong impression during our encounter, said the wrong thing...
And just then it hit me.
Our first date took place in Toronto in 2035. Although you hadn’t indicated any specific date this time, making it seemingly impossible to find you, I managed to do so on my second attempt. All things, living or without life, have a beginning and an end—a rule that travelers, despite the nature of their exploits, were painfully aware of—and since you weren’t there when the CN Tower was completed in 1976, I knew you’d be there around the time of its destruction.
The revolving restaurant where I met you mere hours before it was turned into charred rubble, courtesy of a religiously motivated bombing that surprisingly ended up costing fewer lives than one would have expected from an attack of this magnitude, was nearly full, its visitors enjoying their expensive dinners with blissful unawareness. You were sitting at a table by the window, looking at the nighttime city below, but you caught my reflection well before I sat down opposite to you.
“You were right about the view,” I said, once again speaking first. “Though perhaps it would be even more enjoyable during the day?”
“Perhaps,” you nodded. “But I like the dark. It makes the world seem more mysterious.”
“Touché.”
We ordered from the indigenous menu—a grilled elk steak with root mash and a mint-dusted halibut accompanied by rice and beets—and spent the next two hours in the most pleasant conversation I’d had in a while by that point. You kept things close to the vest, masterfully redirecting topics you deemed to be too personal without actually ignoring them, but you did open up a great deal, and I could tell that the fondness I felt for you was matched in kind.
It was less than thirty minutes before the explosives at the base of the tower were set to go off that we concluded our date. I offered to pay for the meal, and you agreed, despite some initial objections, and after leaving a generous tip to the pleasantly surprised waiter, we made our way to the observation deck below the restaurant. It was nearly deserted—perfect for slipping out of this era unnoticed.
Standing on the glass floor, the ground hundreds of metres below our feet, I looked into your eyes. They were dark blue with a touch of teal, warm and inviting.
“May I walk you home?”
You grinned at the cliché and shook your head. When you replied, however, the tone of your voice was playful, if not coy.
“Maybe next time.”
Despite the negative answer, my heart jumped with joy. Staying true to form, you handed me a clue pertaining to your next whenabouts as you said goodbye—this time, it was a small black-and-white photograph depicting some unknown yet important public event.
A smile lingered on my face long after you activated your machine and vanished.
We had our first kiss in Warsaw in 2066. The colours, the format, and the material of the photograph were a clever misdirection on your part, pointing to a much earlier period in history, and I had to admit that it took me a while to correctly identify the location. Dating conventions of this century dictated that I was supposed to wait at least three days after the initial encounter before reaching out to you, so in that regard, I was unwittingly honouring them, though, of course, I couldn’t possibly know how much time had passed for you since our dinner in Toronto.
However much it was didn’t ultimately matter, because when I found you in the middle of the Royal Castle Square amidst thousands of people gathered to watch the launch of the first Visegrád Union spaceship from the Remek-Hermaszewski cosmodrome just outside of the city, your face lit up with genuine delight.
“You made it,” you said, a hint of surprise in your voice. “I was wondering if I hadn’t made it too difficult for you.”
“It was a piece of cake,” I said, feigning nonchalance. “So what’s your connection to this place?”
Before you could reply, a thunder-like boom broke through the cold night air as five thousand tons of titanium, aluminium, and fuel detached from the ground a couple of kilometres away and started climbing up into the cloudless sky. We initially watched the ship on the giant screen temporarily set up on the square, then it appeared behind the buildings, a thin silver dart with a tail of fire, and the people around us erupted in cheers. Their collective pride, that sense of happiness at being human was so overwhelming that I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.
When the ship became a bright dot on the starry background, I lowered my gaze and turned to you, and it was at that point that your lips found mine. The kiss was exploratory, if not initially hesitant, but as I pulled you close, it turned passionate, enthusiastic, eager. The square, the shouting people, the universe itself ceased to exist—there was only you and I, and this perfect moment.
We first made love in New Valletta in 2147. The floating city, built on the submerged ruins of the Maltese archipelago, was a popular destination in the Mediterranean, attracting flocks of tourists from the entire world.
This time, there were no cryptic hints or murky clues—we arrived together, hand in hand. We spent most of the day at one of the climate-controlled beaches, soaking in the meticulously filtered sunlight, enjoying the warm sea and each other’s company, before retiring to the nearby hotel. We had a glass of wine, then you took my hand and led me to the bed.
There was no awkwardness, no discomfort, no uncertain movements common when two people explore each other intimately for the first time—no, our bodies fit together perfectly, each action mirrored, complemented, each touch purposeful. When we finished, basking in pleasant exhaustion, you turned to me and finally revealed when you were from.
“I guess that makes us almost neighbours,” I said, and after you gave me a quizzical look, I continued: “My present is only a century or so away from yours.”
“In which direction?” you asked.
I gave you a cryptic smile. You opened your mouth in mock outrage.
“So now you are playing hard to get?”
I pulled you in for a long, passionate kiss. “How about I show you?”
I took you to my home time, then you took me to yours. The hundred and twenty-one years separating them were barely reflected in the state of the world, the society, or the culture and habits, making them virtually interchangeable, which was why I thought you and I understood each other so well.
We traveled together to times and places both significant and historically unimportant, distant and near, dangerous and secure. We experienced moments of thrill and moments of pure exhilaration, and throughout it all, my feelings for you developed to the point of love. I knew you felt the same way because just as I was about to express the depth of my affection to you, you revealed that one last thing you had been keeping to yourself.
And it changed everything.
“You are one of them?” you breathe out, your eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and fright. It pains me to know that I am the source of these emotions, but at the same time, the reasonable, responsible part of me tells me that I have nothing to beat myself up about.
“A custodian,” you continue.
It comes out sounding both like an insult and an accusation.
I nod.
“No, it can’t be!” You shake your head vehemently. The reaction is always the same: disbelief, denial, and then...
“Custodians are lone wolves. They can’t have—”
“—relationships, family, children?” I grin bitterly. “We are people, like everyone else. We feel, we dream, we desire. We fall in love...”
You avert your eyes.
“I told you everything,” you say after a while. “I opened myself up to you, and you kept this from me. Why? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
You are grasping at straws, desperately fumbling for a way to lessen the impact of what’s coming. And you are very well aware of what it is—I can see that written in your face.
“You know as well as I do that I couldn’t have told you,” I say, maintaining a neutral tone.
Once again, your gaze wanders to your machine. I can practically see the wheels spinning in your head, and I instinctively tense my muscles, ready to leap out and stop you before you can get to the device.
A second passes, then another, but you remain in place, the mental battle in your head ongoing. Then you look back at me.
“I haven’t done anything,” you say hesitantly.
The denial phase is clearly over, now comes the bargaining.
“It doesn’t matter. The timeline is an incredibly delicate thing, and every threat to it, however minimal, needs to be taken with absolute certainty. You may not have done anything yet, but the mere fact that you thought about it, that you planned to alter the natural course of history, and, even more importantly, articulated this plan, is damning enough.”
“What if I promised to forget all about it? You could watch me for however long you wanted to make sure I wouldn’t do anything forbidden. You could take away my machine. You could—”
I let out a sigh. I’ve heard all of this before. The majority of travelers are just like you, plotting an alteration rather than having already enacted it (those usually don’t protest as much, well aware of their transgressions), but you are the first one I’ve gotten this close to—I love you and that makes it all the more difficult.
“It’s the idea that’s dangerous,” I say almost mechanically. “You can never let it go, not really, especially when it’s someone important to you at the core of it. You say you’ll forget all about it, but it stays there, just at the edge of your consciousness, and one day it starts gnawing at you all over again. I could watch you for a hundred years, but there’s nothing to stop you from going through with it the first hour of the hundred and first year. That’s why the custodians are so uncompromising. That’s why I have to be so uncompromising.”
The last few words are almost impossible to get out. That little waver doesn’t go unnoticed—a faint flicker of hope flashes over your features and you falteringly reach your hand to mine. I don’t withdraw, letting your thin delicate fingers gently brush the back of my hand and wrap around the edge. You squeeze lightly, the warmth and intimacy of the gesture instantly reminding me of all the beautiful moments we shared.
“Maybe you don’t have to be,” you plead. “Please, it was just a naive idea, one that I had doubts about myself—that’s why I told you about it rather than acting upon it straight away. You are a good man, with a good heart, I know you can see that.”
I press my lips together, my head buzzing with conflicting thoughts. There were nuances in the way you articulated the notion a couple of minutes ago that distinguish you from the other transgressors, weren’t there? Slight, barely noticeable cues that painted a picture I am familiar with, yet divergent enough to warrant more meticulous scrutiny?
What if I am rushing my judgement here?
“And you know me,” you carry on. “Think about all those eras we’ve been to. Think about all the people we’ve encountered and interacted with—I have never once done anything to interfere in their fates. No matter how unfortunate they were. Not a single word, nor a hint, nothing.”
“I don’t...”
...quite know what to say. I think back to the times we spent together, rummaging through the memories, replaying conversations, trying to recall exactly what you said and who you talked to. It’s an impossible endeavour—there are too many situations, too many faces to summon in complete detail, but the sum of the bits and pieces I do manage to ascertain appear to support your claim. Ever since we met, you have been nothing but a model traveler, careful and completely desensitized to the surroundings.
It dawns on me that more than anything, your recent proposition is completely out of character.
You tenderly take my other hand.
“You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you and I can see that you feel the same way.”
You are looking straight into my eyes, and I am feeling my earlier, steadfast conviction melt away. I am well aware that I can’t let emotions obfuscate my perception, but that’s not what’s happening to me now, is it? No, definitely not—the situation is different from those I’ve experienced in the past, far less straightforward, and therefore it requires careful consideration of all available facts. And right now, they seem to confirm that my initial conclusion was, indeed, incorrect.
By revealing your plan to me, you have, technically, committed a violation—one that requires immediate intervention by a custodian. However, shouldn’t the circumstances in which it occurred be taken into account as well? Can I, in good conscience, simply ignore them?
I close my eyes as the moment stretches into infinity. If I do this, I do it for the right reasons. Objective reasons. Upholding the integrity of time is extremely important, but even so, it requires a more nuanced approach.
I open my eyes again, the decision firmly rooted in my consciousness. You can see it even before I put it in words, and your entire body sinks with relief.
“If I do this,” I begin hesitantly. “If I let it slide, you can never mention this again. Ever. You have to swear to me here and now that you won’t even think about it.”
“Of course,” you say, and when I look at you meaningfully, you quickly add: “Yes, I swear! Like I told you, it was just a stupid, naive idea, and I am putting it out of my mind for good!”
I nod and take a deep breath. Hold it for a moment, then release it slowly, and with it, the tension I wasn’t even aware was there. It feels good.
It feels right.
“Okay, you can consider yourself off the hook then—with a warning!” I say jovially to make it clear that you can truly relax.
I expect you to smile, embrace me, or otherwise build on the emotions I know you must be feeling in that moment, but you remain motionless and only ask: “Are you sure?”
The question catches me off guard, but I ultimately make nothing of it, assuming that it’s merely your uncertainty talking, brought to life by the unexpected turn of events. I reassuringly squeeze your hand and say, “Yes, don’t worry.”
It’s like the reality itself shifts the moment the words leave my mouth. Your gaze hardens, any signs of affection evaporate from your features, even the skin of your palm and fingers feel suddenly as cold as ice. I am looking at you, yet the person looking back is not anyone I recognize.
“Now I wish you hadn’t said that.”
Even your voice sounds different—formal, measured, detached. An uneasy sensation settles at the pit of my stomach as my mind struggles to comprehend what is going on.
“What are you saying?”
Despite my best efforts, it comes out sounding more than a little anxious.
You withdraw your hands and clasp them together, interlacing your fingers. Then lean back in your chair.
“The timeline is an incredibly delicate thing, and every threat to it, however minimal, needs to be taken with absolute certainty—those were your own words,” you say. “And they are absolutely correct. What they also imply, however, is that this threat can come from anywhere and anyone, traveler and custodian alike.”
“Who are you?” escapes my lips, even though it’s only partially the question I want to be asking.
Nevertheless, you immediately recognize its underlying meaning.
“The main purpose of the custodians is to oversee time and anyone moving through it. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that there should be someone to oversee them?”
And right then, everything clears up. I look at my memories, at all that time spent with you through a new lens, and see it for what it truly was. The destinations you chose, the topics we discussed—the entire time I thought I was keeping an eye on you, while balancing my growing affection for you, you were actually assessing me. Testing me. Making sure I stay true to my mission.
And I have failed. The realization hits me like a bucket of ice-cold water, sweeps the world from under my feet, and turns the knot in my stomach into physical pain.
I have failed. It might have happened because of this one single misstep on my part—and I am currently feeling the full weight of the irony of it—but it happened nonetheless. There is no taking it back, no do-over, no second chance.
I have failed...
I am not sure how much time passes—seconds, minutes, or perhaps even more?—before the chaotic storm of emotions, thoughts, and instincts in my mind clears. Like those I apprehended in the past, I consider fighting, fleeing, furiously rebelling, pathetically pleading, but these are ultimately only fleeting notions, promptly discarded by the voice of reason and the sense of dignity. It’s the prior experience that helps me understand, on a logical level, that what you are doing isn’t personal or malicious, though the emotional part of me feels nothing but betrayed.
You watch me silently, while I make an uneasy peace with what awaits me. Your gaze remains cautious and neutral, but your posture visibly relaxes as I accept the inevitable fate, and hand you my machine. It is this change, this softening of the edges, that spurs something in me—not quite hope, no, I am not that foolish, nor an optimistic longing. It’s something more like a need.
I need to know whether all that we’ve been through together, the passion, tenderness, and affection we demonstrated to one another was only an elaborate pretense on your part, or at least some of it was genuine. At the same time, I am afraid of the answer—of both possible alternatives equally, as a matter of fact.
“It’s time,” you say, firmly, yet not unkindly, and stand up.
I follow suit. The question is right there, at the tip of my tongue, but I find myself unable to voice it.
You get your device from the table and enter the destination coordinates as you walk back to me. I watch your finger hesitate above the button initiating the transmission—you look up and utter: “Ready to go?”
It’s what you always said whenever we would travel somewhen, and at that moment, I can swear that a ghost of a smile flashes in the corners of your eyes. Imagined or not, it gives me the push I require.
So I ask.