Page 37 of Evermore

The accusation hung between them like a blade, cutting through Finn's defenses to expose fears he'd been trying to ignore. Maybe Maya was right about his relationship with River moving too fast, becoming too dependent, asking too much of someone who hadn't signed up for progressive neurological decline.

“Get out,” Finn said quietly, exhaustion replacing anger as his emotional resources hit their limit. “Just go, Maya. I can't do this right now.”

“Finn—”

“Go. Please. Before we say things we can't take back.”

Maya left with tears streaming down her face, and Finn stood alone in his workshop surrounded by evidence of work he couldn't remember doing, wondering if everyone he loved was going to abandon him or if he was going to drive them away first to avoid the pain of watching them leave.

The emotional turmoil felt like a physical storm building in his chest, pressure and electricity that made the air around him seem to vibrate with potential energy. Finn recognized the warning signs from previous episodes, but this time the approaching displacement felt different—bigger, morecomprehensive, like a wave that would sweep away everything in its path.

The episode hit like stepping through a doorway into a parallel life. One moment Finn was standing in his workshop surrounded by familiar tools and half-finished projects, and the next he was in the same space but everything was subtly different—brighter, more organized, filled with work that demonstrated expertise he'd never developed.

But this wasn't like his previous episodes. Instead of brief confusion or partial displacement, Finn found himself fully aware that he was experiencing something impossible while simultaneously living it as if it were completely normal.

He was himself, but he was also a version of himself who had made different choices, developed different skills, built a different life. The knowledge existed in his mind alongside his actual memories, creating a strange double consciousness where he could access both versions of his experience simultaneously.

In this reality, his mother's illness had been diagnosed earlier, treated more successfully. She was still alive, living in a comfortable assisted care facility where she maintained most of her cognitive function and could still recognize him during visits. The crushing grief that had defined Finn's last two years simply didn't exist here, replaced by manageable sadness about her condition but also ongoing hope for her recovery.

His relationship with Maya was different too—closer, less fraught with unresolved trauma from their mother's death. They worked together more as a team, supporting each other through their mother's illness instead of Maya carrying most of the burden while Finn struggled with guilt and helplessness.

And River. In this version of reality, they'd met under completely different circumstances. Finn had been volunteering for marine conservation efforts, had encountered River during a research expedition rather than stumbling into his life duringa personal crisis. Their relationship had developed slowly over months of shared environmental work, built on common interests and mutual respect rather than Finn's desperate need for stability.

They were together in this reality, but their connection felt fundamentally different—more balanced, less intense, developed through normal relationship progression rather than crisis bonding. River wasn't trying to fix Finn's medical problems because Finn didn't have medical problems. Instead, they were equal partners working toward shared goals, supporting each other's professional development and personal growth.

“The reef restoration data looks promising,” River said, appearing in the workshop doorway with enthusiasm that felt familiar but focused on different concerns than Finn was used to. “The kelp transplantation is showing better survival rates than we projected.”

Finn heard himself responding with detailed knowledge about marine biology that he'd apparently developed through years of conservation work. The conversation flowed naturally, both of them contributing expertise and insights, neither carrying the weight of medical crises or neurological symptoms.

But even as Finn experienced this alternate reality with full sensory detail and emotional engagement, part of his consciousness remained aware that it wasn't real. He could feel the episode happening, could sense the temporal displacement that was allowing him to access experiences that belonged to a different version of his life.

The strange thing was how appealing this alternate reality felt. In this version of his life, he wasn't struggling with mysterious neurological symptoms or depending on someone he barely knew for emotional stability. His relationships werehealthier, his professional life was thriving, and his future felt hopeful instead of terrifying.

But it also felt less intense, less vital than the reality he actually inhabited. The love between him and River in this alternate timeline was genuine but not desperate, comfortable but not transcendent. They cared about each other deeply, but without the fierce protectiveness and consuming need that characterized their actual relationship.

The episode lasted what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, giving Finn extensive access to experiences and memories that belonged to this other version of his life. He attended their mother's birthday party at the care facility, watched Maya graduate from her doctoral program without the stress of managing family medical crises, celebrated professional achievements with River that felt satisfying but not life-changing.

When reality snapped back into focus, Finn found himself sitting on his workshop floor with tears streaming down his face and a bone-deep sense of loss that felt like grieving for someone who'd died. The experiences he'd just lived through had felt completely real, more vivid and detailed than normal memories, but they were gone now, leaving only echoes and the devastating awareness of how different his life could have been.

River found him twenty minutes later, having rushed over after Finn failed to answer repeated phone calls. He burst through the workshop door like a man expecting to find disaster, his face cycling through relief and alarm when he saw Finn sitting on the floor with obvious signs of distress.

“Jesus, Finn, what happened?” River dropped to his knees beside Finn, hands moving over him with gentle urgency, checking for injury or signs of physical distress. “I've been calling for an hour.”

“Episode,” Finn managed, his voice hoarse from crying over experiences that hadn't actually happened but felt more real than most of his actual memories. “Really long one. Really intense. I think I was gone for... how long was I gone?”

“Your last text was around noon, and it's almost three now.” River helped Finn move to his workstation chair, noting the way his hands shook and his coordination seemed impaired. “What did you experience?”

Finn tried to explain what he'd seen and felt during the displacement, but the words felt inadequate for the scope of what he'd experienced. How could he describe an entire alternate life that had felt completely real but couldn't have happened? How could he articulate the profound sense of loss for experiences that had never occurred?

“It was like living a completely different version of my life,” Finn said finally. “Same people, same basic circumstances, but everything was different. Mom was still alive and recovering, Maya and I had a better relationship, we met under completely different circumstances and developed our relationship slowly over months instead of weeks.”

River's expression was carefully controlled, but Finn caught flickers of something that might have been recognition, as if the described alternate reality resonated with him in ways that should have been impossible.

“The details you're describing,” River said slowly, “do they feel like memories or like dreams?”

“Like memories. Like things that really happened, even though I know they couldn't have.” Finn wiped his eyes with shaking hands. “River, what if my episodes aren't just neurological dysfunction? What if I'm somehow accessing alternate versions of my life? Different timelines where things happened differently?”

The suggestion sounded insane even as Finn voiced it, but River didn't immediately dismiss the possibility. Instead, he looked thoughtful in the way that suggested his scientific mind was processing information that challenged conventional understanding while also trying to find rational explanations for impossible experiences.

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