This story may confuse you. That is intentional. If you think I've accidentally repeated paragraphs, that is intentional.

Enjoy!

The black canvas of night, sequined by millions of silver stars. A club with glasses scattered over tables, with tangles of hot debates and flirty conversations, with musicians hollering with their drums and strings and voices. Then, of course, there was that yell from the bouncer telling them that the bar would be closing soon.

It happened once every night in this same bar.

And yet, maybe it happened a thousand times every night in the same bar. Once in every dimension.

And maybe there were more than a thousand dimensions -- maybe even millions. Or, maybe, there were billions and billions branching out by the second. A new dimension created by every moment where she could have made a different decision.

When she chose whether she should have worn a red dress or a black dress?

Maybe, when she had chosen the black dress, she had created a new dimension. A dimension where she had chosen the red dress, instead.

That's what she thought, anyways.

Dimensions. Millions of them. Growing exponentially as people made every new decision.

She glanced up at that moment, finding eyes staring back at her. They were beautiful blue eyes -- not particularly sober, but not weighed down by the dark shadows of fatigue. Even with the flashing green and blue lights dancing around like lasers, she could see the tumult of emotions in that gaze.

Amusement. Wonder. Nervousness.

In that second, she decided to make a decision. A decision that would make millions and millions of dimensions.

"Do you care for a dance?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, you're a what?"

She laughed as his jaw dropped. "I'm a professor. In physics."

"Well, lady, you sure as hell want nothing to do with me, then."

"What? Are you a murderer?"

"Wha-- no, of course not."

"Then I don't see a problem."

He winced at that, glancing away from those teasing eyes. They had spent the rest of the night like that, feeling the mute and soft sand of the beach beneath them, feeling the shafts of grass along the rolling dunes.

They bounced off each other so well. So damned well. For every dry remark he made, she had a sharp retort already aimed at him. And, lord help him, she was gorgeous -- fiery red hair, eyes as green as the bottle of beer he had chugged at the sight of her, a smile that lit up her whole face.

But she was a professor of physics. Working on a research paper about dimensions.

Dimensions.

And here he was--

"Well, what do you do?" she asked again.

"I don't kill people, if that's what you're really asking."

She snorted at that. "Sounds exactly like what a murderer would say."

"Oh, bloody hell--"

But even he couldn't help the broad grin that stretched across his lips.

She was funny -- he liked that about her. But she was smart. Far too smart for him.

"Well?"

With a playful roll of his eyes, he sighed. "You're not going to like it."

"Try me."

He paused briefly. For drama, maybe. Mostly because he was still considering lying.

But he hadn't been taught to lie to pretty girls.

"I'm a bus driver."

Her face -- her face -- would have been priceless, had it not felt like a stab in the gut. The sparkle in her eyes was gone, the fingers that had been trailing down his arm frozen in place.

He could see the battle in her gaze.

She was a professor. How would she explain to colleagues that she was dating a bus driver?

And yet, surely she had felt that same pull that he felt. That same tug. That same attraction.

But, clearly, she didn't. Because she stood up, breathing in the seaweed and salt, letting the froth of the waves tickle her feet.

"It's getting late," she told him. "I should go."

When she left, she never looked back.

"Well?"

With a playful roll of his eyes, he sighed. "You're not going to like it."

"Try me."

He paused briefly. For drama, maybe. Mostly because he was still considering lying.

But he hadn't been taught to lie to pretty girls.

"I'm a bus driver."

Her face -- her face -- would have been priceless, had it not felt like a stab in the gut. The sparkle in her eyes was gone, the fingers that had been trailing down his arm frozen in place.

He could see the battle in her gaze.

She was a professor. How would she explain to colleagues that she was dating a bus driver?

And yet, surely she had felt that same pull that he felt. That same tug. That same attraction.

Finally, when she smiled, he felt his heart leap.

"Good on you," she said, her fingers moving down his arm again, sending little shivers rolling up his skin. "I don't even know how to drive."

"Well, I don't even know what pot-ass-aye-im looks like."

"Potassium," she corrected. "And, in my defence, I got sick when I was learning to drive. Really sick."

He arched his brow. "As in, carsick?"

"No. Cancer sick."

"Must have been one hell of a car."

To his surprise, she threw her head back and laughed at that one -- laughed as though it had been the funniest thing she had heard. "It sure was."

"So, you still sick?"

"No. I've been cancer-free for years."

"Then please don't ever step in a car again. Wouldn't want you getting cancer on me."

He gave her a brief wink. She reached out and squeezed his hand.

"Say," she said, "can you lick your nose?"

And they spent the rest of the night doing just that.

Only months later, he moved in.

It was just as magical as she knew it would be. He brought her flowers once every now and then. She taught him how to pronounce fancy pasta names. They would spend the nights lying in bed, him smoothing her hair as she rambled on and on about choices. Dimensions. Alternate universes.

Then, he started coming home late.

"Where have you been?"

Her voice was sharp. Cold. And, as she gazed down at him from the top of her staircase, he shrivelled up.

"I..."

"Where have you been?"

His clothes were rumpled. His eyes were tired. And he couldn't quite meet her gaze.

"Are you seeing someone else?" she demanded. "Who is it? Who?"

He raised his arms in surrender. "No! No one, I swear."

"Then where have you been?"

Once again, that hesitation. That guilt.

"I can't tell you," he told her. "I know it sounds bad, but..."

"Get out."

"What?"

She pointed at the door, scowling. "Get. Out."

"Listen to me. It's not what--"

But she didn't want to listen. She was so damned tired. The doctor's appointment hadn't been reassuring, a fellow professor had laughed at her face when she had mentioned dimensions, and all she had wanted when she had come home was his warm arms. His soft chuckle. His caring, listening eyes.

And this was what she got?

"Get out," she repeated. "Now."

She could see his heart shattering through those very eyes. But she didn't care.

Instead, she urged him out the door and slammed it shut behind him. Then, with one last longing look towards the wooden plank that separated herself from millions of new dimensions, she turned back towards the stairs.

When she left, she never looked back.

"Get out."

"What?"

She pointed at the door, scowling. "Get. Out."

"Listen to me. It's not what--"

But she didn't want to listen. She was so damned tired. The doctor's appointment hadn't been reassuring, a fellow professor had laughed at her face when she had mentioned dimensions, and all she had wanted when she had come home was his warm arms. His soft chuckle. His caring, listening eyes.

And this was what she got?

"Get out," she repeated. "Now."

He stared back at her, that same defiance in his eyes. "No."

Then, with a few long strides, he was up the stairs, yanking her by the arm and kissing her.

It felt like the world was falling away. Like she was falling and flying in his arms, like she was melting into his chest. Wanting. Longing. Needing.

But he was a cheater. Why else would he be out so late?

And so, she pushed him away with one gentle shove.

"I mean it," she hissed. "Get out of my fucking house."

She could see his heart shattering through those very eyes. But she didn't care.

Instead, she urged him out the door and slammed it shut behind him. Then, with one last longing look towards the wooden plank that separated herself from millions of new dimensions, she turned back towards the stairs.

When she left, she never looked back.

"Get out," she repeated. "Now."

He stared back at her, that same defiance in his eyes. "No."

Then, with a few long strides, he was up the stairs, yanking her by the arm and kissing her.

It felt like the world was falling away. Like she was falling and flying in his arms, like she was melting into his chest. Wanting. Longing. Needing.

And maybe -- just maybe -- he wasn't a cheater. Maybe he really did have a good reason.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

So, pulling herself away, she ran her fingers over his face. His light stubble. His soft jaw.

"You look like you've had a shit day at work," he told her.

She nodded. "My colleague told me my report was bullshit."

"Well, I had a great day. I touched my nose with my tongue."

"Bullshit."

He grinned. And, before her very own eyes, he stretched out his tongue and touched his nose.

"See?"

He laughed as her jaw dropped.

The phone call came while she was at work.

She answered it.

And, when she heard what the doctor said, her phone went clattering onto the desk.

The cancer was back.

The cancer was back.

The phone call came while she was making dinner.

She answered it.

And, when she heard what the doctor said, her phone went clattering onto the kitchen counter.

The cancer was back.

The cancer was back.

The phone call came while she was burying herself beneath her blanket.

She answered it.

And, when she heard what the doctor said, her phone went clattering onto the floor.

The cancer was back.

The cancer was back.

He walked into the room at that moment, dressed in a suit instead of his usual boxers. His hands were hiding behind his back, shielding away the small velvet box in his palms.

When he walked in, she was staring down at her phone that had tumbled onto the floor. Her face was pale, her eyes were completely swollen, and she was taking harsh breaths as her gaze trailed up to him.

"Are you wearing a suit?"

That was his girl. Judgemental, even when she was on the verge of a breakdown.

"Yes," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "Did you get a phone call? Are you... alright?"

It was a stupid question. Just looking at those red-rimmed eyes, those thin lips, he knew. Something was not alright.

Nonetheless, he waited for her.

"No," she croaked.

He sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

She looked at him. Thought about it for a second.

"No."

Then, she rode the blanket up to her shoulders and went back to sleep. He watched her, staring at the box in his hands, at the gold ring that he had bought using the extra hours he had spent working at night.

She broke up with him days later, while they were eating dinner at a restaurant. It was quick and brief, with no explanation. She just told him plain and flat, stood up, paid the bill, and went to the glass doors.

When she left, she never looked back.

When he walked into the room, even with the news of cancer ringing in her ears, she couldn't help but arch her brow.

He was wearing a suit. It was late at night, with the silver light of the moon sliding over his face, and he was in a suit. Stranger yet, his hands were behind his back, and he was looking nervous. Like he couldn't quite meet her eyes. Like he was feeling sheepish about something.

"Are you wearing a suit?" she asked.

His squirm almost made her smile. Except, she didn't. She couldn't. Because her heart, her stomach, and oh lord, her lungs hurt. It felt like she was breathing in glass as she stared up at him.

"Yes," he answered, running a hand through his hair. "Did you get a phone call? Are you... alright?"

It was a stupid question. Surely, he could see her red-rimmed eyes, her thin lips.

Nonetheless, she sighed.

"No," she croaked.

He sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

She looked at him. And, in that second, she saw it. The small, red box. The one he had been trying to hide.

He was going to propose to her.

And she--

The glass shards in her lungs felt wickedly tighter as he manouvered himself onto the floor, kneeling. Box in hand. Looking up at her with shining, hopeful eyes.

"Will you marry me?"

She was choking on her tears.

Of course she wanted to marry him. The stupid bus driver who spent months learning how to lick his nose to cheer her up. The stupid but beautiful man who she felt so inexplicably drawn to, pulled to, attracted to.

But she was going to die. She knew it. She felt it.

She couldn't do that to him.

And so, she shook her head.

"No."

She broke up with him hours later. Helped him back his bags and move into his new apartment after a week. Then, with a brief kiss on his cheek, she turned on her heel.

When she left, she never looked back.

"Did you get a phone call? Are you... alright?"

It was a stupid question. Just looking at those red-rimmed eyes, those thin lips, he knew. Something was not alright.

Nonetheless, he waited for her.

"No," she croaked.

He sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

She looked at him. Thought about it for a second.

"The cancer is back."

It felt like a stone had been dropped into the pit of his stomach.

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do.

Part of him still wanted to get down on one knee. But the other part of him already saw the answer in her eyes -- the desperate, pleading no.

So, he slipped the ring back into his pocket and held her tight.

She broke up with him a month later. On that beach where she had learnt that he was a bus driver. With a brief shrug of her shoulders and a final goodbye, she moved away from the waves.

When she left, she never looked back.

"Will you marry me?"

She was choking on her tears.

Of course she wanted to marry him. The stupid bus driver who spent months learning how to lick his nose to cheer her up. The stupid but beautiful man who she felt so inexplicably drawn to, pulled to, attracted to.

But she was going to die. She knew it. She felt it.

And yet--

"I have cancer."

He inhaled sharply. But still, he held his hand out, the ring shimmering, his eyes just as hopeful. Just as loving.

"So?"

"I could die," she pointed out. "You don't want to... I couldn't let you..."

The tears came then. Streaming down her cheeks, falling into her hands as she cupped her face.

"I've made my decision," he said gently, prying away those hands. "And I still want to marry you. Will you marry me?"

She looked at him again. At those beautiful eyes that sparkled with a thousand dimensions.

"Yes."

And they got married on that beach, their kiss echoing in millions of other dimensions.

Dimensions. Millions of them. Growing exponentially as people made every new decision.

She glanced up at that moment, finding eyes staring back at her. They were beautiful blue eyes -- not particularly sober, but not weighed down by the dark shadows of fatigue. Even with the flashing green and blue lights dancing around like lasers, she could see the tumult of emotions in that gaze.

Amusement. Wonder. Nervousness.

In that second, she decided to make a decision. A decision that would make millions and millions of dimensions.

She walked away.

And when she left, she never looked back.

This is, without a doubt, my newest favourite short story that I have written. I've been pondering this idea for a while now, and I couldn't get it out of my head.

Prompt: A story about two people who are trapped in the wrong time.

The prompt was by... well, me. But, more specifically, it's for The Monthly Gemstone Awards run by the TreasureCommunity. While I can't enter because I'm the host, if I could enter, this would have been my entry. I'm really proud of it. I hope you liked it, too!