The Chronos Effect
Chapter Twelve: Moving Forward
The morning of my thesis defense, I woke up at 4:37 AM with my heart pounding and my shirt soaked in sweat.
Amy stirred beside me in the narrow twin bed. "Nightmare?"
"Yeah."
"The accident?"
"No. The defense. I forgot my entire presentation and Dr. Vasquez was laughing at me while I stood there naked."
Amy snorted. "Classic anxiety dream. At least you weren't naked in the accident nightmares."
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny." She rolled over to face me, her hand finding mine in the darkness. "You're going to be fine. Better than fine. You're going to be brilliant."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. I've read your thesis. Twice. I don't understand half of it, but the half I do understand is incredible."
I squeezed her hand. "What if they ask questions I can't answer?"
"Then you say 'that's an excellent question and I'll need to research that further.' That's what my med school professors always said when they didn't know something."
"Your med school professors were already doctors. They had credibility."
"And you will too. In approximately..." She checked her phone. "Eight hours and twenty-three minutes."
Eight hours and twenty-three minutes. The same amount of time I'd had that night to decide whether to save Amy or let her die. Funny how time kept circling back to the same numbers, like the universe had a sick sense of humor.
"Go back to sleep," Amy said. "You need rest."
"I can't sleep."
"Then at least lie still and pretend. Your restless energy is making me anxious."
I tried to stay still, but my mind was racing. Not just about the defense, but about everything that had happened in the past week. The crash, the engagement, moving in with Amy's parents, the baby that was growing inside her while we slept in her childhood bed surrounded by boy band posters.
And underneath all of it, the quiet hum of knowledge that I'd broken reality and somehow survived it. That I'd seen multiple timelines, watched Amy die in at least three different ways, and made impossible choices that had led us here.
Dr. Vasquez hadn't mentioned the temporal anomalies since that night in the hospital. The equipment she'd set up to track fractures had gone silent. Reality had stabilized, sealed itself up like a wound healing.
But I still remembered. Every loop, every choice, every version of Amy who had died so this version could live.
"You're thinking too loud," Amy mumbled.
"Sorry."
"What are you thinking about?"
Everything. Nothing. The weight of knowing things I could never tell her.
"Just wondering if we're doing the right thing," I said.
"With what?"
"All of it. Getting married, having a baby, trying to build a life when everything feels so fragile."
Amy propped herself up on one elbow. "Damian, everything is fragile. That's what makes it precious."
"I know, but—"
"No buts. We survived a truck crashing through our bedroom. If that's not a sign that we can handle whatever life throws at us, I don't know what is."
"A truck crashing through our bedroom is exactly why I'm worried."
"About what?"
"About what comes next. What if something worse happens? What if I can't protect you?"
Amy was quiet for a moment, and I could feel her studying my face in the dim light filtering through her childhood curtains.
"Damian, you can't protect me from everything. That's not how life works."
"I know."
"Do you? Because ever since the accident, you've been acting like if you just plan enough, control enough variables, nothing bad will ever happen to us again."
She was right. I had been trying to control everything—scheduling her doctor appointments, researching the safest cars, planning our route to avoid Highway 61 even though we had no reason to go there.
"I'm scared," I admitted.
"Of what?"
"Of losing you again."
"Again?" Amy tilted her head. "You've never lost me."
But I had. Multiple times. In multiple ways. And the memory of holding her dying body in the rain was still so vivid I could feel it in my bones.
"I just mean... I'm scared of losing you. Period."
"I'm scared too," Amy said softly. "I'm terrified of being a mother. I'm terrified of messing up our kid. I'm terrified that one day you'll wake up and realize you didn't sign up for all this chaos."
"That's never going to happen."
"See? You're doing it again. Making promises you can't guarantee."
"What should I say instead?"
"Say you'll try. Say you'll do your best. Say you love me and we'll figure it out together, even when we're both scared and confused and have no idea what we're doing."
I pulled her close, feeling the warmth of her body against mine. "I love you and we'll figure it out together, even when we're both scared and confused and have no idea what we're doing."
"Better." She kissed my cheek. "Now get some sleep. You have a PhD to defend in eight hours."
"Seven hours and fifty-three minutes."
"God, you're such a physicist."
I did eventually fall back asleep, though I dreamed about equations I couldn't solve and questions I couldn't answer. When I woke up again at seven, Amy was already in the shower and Mrs. Chen was making breakfast downstairs.
The smell of coffee and pancakes filled the house. Real pancakes, not the frozen kind Amy and I usually ate. Mrs. Chen had apparently decided that my thesis defense required a proper breakfast.
"Big day," Mr. Chen said when I walked into the kitchen. He was reading the newspaper at the table, still in his bathrobe. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrified."
"Good. If you weren't terrified, you wouldn't be taking it seriously." He folded the paper and looked at me over his reading glasses. "My dissertation defense was forty-three years ago, and I still remember every second of it."
"That's not helping."
"It's supposed to help. You're not the first person to do this, and you won't be the last. And in forty-three years, you'll be sitting at a breakfast table telling some nervous kid that it's going to be fine."
Mrs. Chen set a plate of pancakes in front of me. "Eat. You need your strength."
"I'm not really hungry."
"Eat anyway. Amy told me you didn't have dinner last night."
I had been too nervous to eat dinner. And now, looking at the stack of pancakes, I was too nervous to eat breakfast. But Mrs. Chen was standing there with her arms crossed, and I knew from experience that arguing with her was pointless.
I ate the pancakes.
Amy came downstairs twenty minutes later, dressed in a blue sundress that made her eyes look golden in the morning light. She'd done her makeup carefully, covering the faint bruising that still remained from the accident.
"You look beautiful," I said.
"You look terrified."
"I am terrified."
"Good. Use that energy. Channel it into your presentation."
Dr. Vasquez had texted me the night before with last-minute advice: *Breathe. Make eye contact. Remember that you know more about your thesis than anyone else in that room.*
Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one who had to stand in front of a committee and defend months of research while trying not to think about the fact that she'd almost destroyed reality a week ago.
The defense was scheduled for one o'clock in the physics building's main conference room. Amy insisted on driving me, even though her parents had offered.
"I want to be there early," she said. "Moral support."
"You're supposed to be resting."
"I've been resting for a week. I'm fine."
She wasn't fine—I could see the way she moved carefully, protecting her still-tender ribs. But I also knew better than to argue when she'd made up her mind.
We arrived at campus at noon. The conference room was empty except for Dr. Vasquez, who was setting up the projector.
"There you are," she said when she saw us. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten cold feet."
"I'm here."
"Good. Amy, you look wonderful. How are you feeling?"
"Better every day. Thanks for asking."
Dr. Vasquez studied me with the intensity she usually reserved for lab results. "Damian, can I talk to you for a moment? Privately?"
Amy glanced between us. "I'll wait outside."
After she left, Dr. Vasquez closed the conference room door and turned to face me.
"How are you really doing?"
"Fine."
"Damian."
"I'm fine. The nightmares are getting better. Amy and I are planning the wedding. Everything's fine."
"And the temporal awareness?"
I knew what she was asking. The buzzing in my head, the sense of time moving differently, the feeling that I could reach back and change things if I wanted to.
"Gone. Completely."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Whatever happened that night, it closed the loop. I'm just... normal now."
Dr. Vasquez nodded slowly. "Good. That's good. Though I have to admit, from a scientific perspective, it's a bit disappointing."
"Disappointing?"
"You experienced something unprecedented. The ability to manipulate spacetime through consciousness alone. If we could have studied it properly—"
"You want to study the thing that almost destroyed reality?"
"I want to understand it. There's a difference."
"Well, there's nothing to study anymore. It's over."
"Is it, though?"
The question hung in the air between us.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the readings I took that night, right before everything stabilized—they showed something interesting. The temporal fractures didn't just disappear. They were absorbed."
"Absorbed by what?"
"By you. Or more specifically, by your timeline. By the reality you chose to accept."
I stared at her. "I don't understand."
"Think of it like scar tissue. When you break a bone, it heals stronger than before. The same thing happened with spacetime. By accepting the original timeline instead of fighting it, you allowed reality to heal. But the healing process incorporated all those other possibilities. They're still there, just dormant."
"Are you saying I could still—"
"No. I'm saying the potential is still there, but it would take another massive trauma to activate it. Something as profound as watching Amy die."
"Which I never plan to experience again."
"I hope you don't." Dr. Vasquez glanced at the clock. "But Damian, if you ever do experience that kind of trauma again, if you ever feel that buzzing in your head returning—"
"I'll call you. I promise."
"Good." She checked her phone. "Committee members start arriving in twenty minutes. You should review your notes one more time."
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur. Committee members arrived and made small talk while I tried not to throw up. Amy sat in the front row, giving me encouraging smiles that didn't quite mask her own nervousness. Dr. Vasquez introduced everyone and explained the format.
Then it was time.
I stood at the front of the room, my presentation loaded on the screen behind me, and looked at the five professors who would determine whether I'd spent the last three years of my life working toward something meaningful or just spinning my wheels.
"Good afternoon," I began. "My dissertation explores the theoretical frameworks for consciousness-based temporal manipulation and the potential for quantum entanglement between human awareness and specific moments in spacetime."
Dr. Morrison, the committee chair, raised an eyebrow. "That's quite an ambitious topic."
"Yes, sir. It is."
"Begin whenever you're ready."
I clicked to the first slide and started talking. About quantum mechanics and temporal theory. About the mathematics of consciousness and the possibility of anchor points in spacetime. About how extreme emotional trauma might create temporary bridges between different moments in time.
Halfway through, I realized I wasn't nervous anymore. I was in my element, talking about things I'd lived through, explaining theories I'd proven to myself even if I could never prove them to anyone else.
The questions started after my presentation.
"How would you measure consciousness-based temporal effects?" Dr. Morrison asked.
"Through quantum field fluctuations and localized spacetime distortions. Though the measurements would be subtle and require extremely sensitive equipment."
"And the ethical implications of such technology?"
"Profound. The ability to change the past would fundamentally alter our understanding of choice, consequence, and moral responsibility."
"Would you say such technology should be developed?"
I thought about that. About the loops I'd experienced, the choices I'd made, the people who'd died and lived and died again across different timelines.
"No," I said finally. "Some powers are too dangerous to wield. Some choices are too heavy to carry."
Dr. Morrison nodded approvingly. "Interesting perspective."
The defense lasted two hours. Two hours of questions and answers, challenges and explanations, theoretical discussions that touched on everything I'd experienced without anyone realizing I was speaking from direct knowledge.
Finally, Dr. Vasquez stood up. "I think we have what we need. Damian, if you and Amy could step outside for a moment while the committee deliberates?"
Amy and I stood in the hallway, holding hands while my entire academic future was decided behind closed doors.
"How do you think it went?" she asked.
"I don't know. I think okay? Maybe?"
"You were brilliant. I didn't understand most of it, but you sounded like you knew exactly what you were talking about."
"That's because I do know. I just can't prove it."
"Can't prove what?"
"That—"
The conference room door opened. Dr. Vasquez stuck her head out.
"Damian? We're ready for you."
I walked back into the room, my heart pounding. The committee members were all smiling, which seemed like a good sign. Or maybe they smiled before crushing your dreams. I had no idea.
Dr. Morrison stood up and extended his hand.
"Congratulations, Dr. Torres."
The words took a moment to register. Dr. Torres. Not Damian, not Mr. Torres, not "we need you to revise and resubmit."
Dr. Torres.
"I passed?"
"With distinction. Your work is groundbreaking, your presentation was clear and confident, and your defense of your theories was exceptional." Dr. Morrison shook my hand firmly. "We're proud to have you as a colleague."
The rest of the committee congratulated me, shaking my hand and making comments about my research that I barely heard over the roaring in my ears. I'd done it. After three years of work, countless sleepless nights, and a week where reality almost fell apart, I'd done it.
I was Dr. Damian Torres.
Amy was crying when I walked out of the conference room. Happy tears this time, her face bright with pride.
"Dr. Torres," she said, wrapping her arms around my neck. "How does it feel?"
"Surreal."
"You did it."
"We did it. I couldn't have finished without you."
"That's not true, but I'll let you believe it." She kissed me, long and deep, right there in the hallway of the physics building. "I'm so proud of you."
Dr. Vasquez came out a moment later, grinning. "I knew you'd pass. Your work is excellent, Damian. Truly excellent."
"Thank you. For everything. For believing in me. For helping me when things got... complicated."
"That's what advisors are for." She glanced between Amy and me. "So what's next for you two?"
"Find an apartment," Amy said. "Plan a wedding. Prepare for a baby. The usual."
"And career-wise?"
I hadn't thought much about careers in the past week. The immediate future had consumed all my attention.
"I'm not sure yet. I've had some interest from research positions, but with the baby coming..."
"Take your time," Dr. Vasquez said. "You've earned it. Enjoy this moment."
We left campus as the sun was starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Amy drove us to the restaurant where we'd had our first date, the one with brick walls and flickering candles.
"I made a reservation," she said. "To celebrate."
"You were that confident I'd pass?"
"I was that confident in you."
Over dinner, we talked about the future. Real, tangible plans instead of theoretical possibilities. An apartment with a second bedroom for the nursery. A small wedding in Mrs. Chen's backyard. Maybe a honeymoon, if we could squeeze it in before the baby arrived.
"What about your research?" Amy asked. "Are you going to keep working on temporal theory?"
I thought about that. About the loops I'd experienced, the fractures I'd created, the reality I'd almost destroyed.
"I think," I said slowly, "that some research is better left theoretical."
"Because?"
"Because some knowledge is too dangerous. Some powers are too heavy to carry."
Amy reached across the table and took my hand. "You're talking about more than just research, aren't you?"
"Maybe."
"Damian, whatever happened to you in the past few weeks—whatever you experienced that you can't quite explain—it's made you different. Wiser, somehow."
"Or more scared."
"Sometimes wisdom and fear look the same." She squeezed my hand. "But you're here. We're here. And that's what matters."
She was right. We were here, in this restaurant, planning a future that a week ago I wasn't sure we'd have. I was Dr. Torres now. Soon I'd be a husband, then a father. Life was moving forward, carrying us with it.
And for the first time since I'd discovered I could loop through time, I was ready to let it.
Later that night, back in Amy's childhood bedroom, I lay awake while she slept beside me. My phone buzzed with a text from Dr. Vasquez.
Congratulations again, Dr. Torres. One last thing—I'm keeping the temporal monitoring equipment active, just in case. If you ever feel that buzzing again, promise me you'll think very carefully before acting on it.
I typed back: I promise. But I won't need to. That chapter is closed.*
I hope you're right.
I set the phone aside and pulled Amy closer, feeling her steady breathing against my chest. Tomorrow we'd start looking at apartments. Next week we'd meet with a wedding planner. In a few months, we'd become parents.
The future stretched out before us, uncertain and beautiful and completely normal.
And that was exactly what I wanted.