Too Late For His Apology

Clara Holt POV:

A notification lit up my phone screen, a shard of cold blue light in my dark bedroom. It was a video, sent from an unknown number. My thumb hovered over the notification, a sick feeling coiling in my stomach. I knew I shouldn't look.

But I did.

The video was shaky, filmed from a distance. It showed the parking lot of a cheap diner. Joshua was there, his face a mask of fury. A couple of guys from the football team were cornering Amelia Mcclain, laughing and taunting her. Then Joshua exploded. He threw one of the guys against a car with a sickening thud, his voice a raw snarl I had never heard before. "Leave her alone!"

Amelia clung to his arm, her face buried in his chest, sobbing. "Joshua, stop, please," she cried, her voice a pathetic whimper. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have been out so late."

Joshua's rage melted instantly. He pulled her into a tight hug, stroking her hair. "It's not your fault, Amelia," he murmured, his voice soft with a tenderness that used to be mine. "Don't ever say that. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Then he looked directly at her, his expression deadly serious. "Give me your number. I want to be able to find you. Always."

My phone slipped from my numb fingers and clattered to the floor. I want to be able to find you. Always. It was the exact phrase he'd used with me two years ago, after I' d gotten lost on a hiking trip and he' d spent hours frantically searching for me. It was our phrase. A promise.

Now, he was giving it to her.

The foundation of our history, the little bricks of shared moments and private promises, was being dismantled and used to build a shelter for someone else. My heart, which I thought had already been shattered, found a new way to break. It felt like a physical blow, a fist tightening in my chest until I couldn't breathe. I was nothing more than a memory he was actively erasing.

I was supposed to meet him and our friends at the library to finalize our university housing applications. I didn't go. I couldn't. I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the cold seep into my bones.

That's when the ground started to shake.

At first, it was a low rumble, like a distant train. Then my windows rattled violently. Books tumbled from my shelves. A deep, groaning crack split the ceiling above me. An earthquake. The "big one" they always warned about but you never truly believed would happen.

Panic erupted outside. Screams, car alarms, the terrifying sound of structures groaning under a stress they were never meant to bear. My first instinct was to call Joshua. My fingers were already dialing his number before I remembered the video. He wouldn't answer. He was probably with her, making sure she was safe.

The shaking intensified. My bookshelf toppled over, crashing to the floor. A heavy chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling, striking my leg. The pain was sharp and blinding, bringing tears to my eyes. The floor beneath me gave a final, sickening lurch.

As the world dissolved into dust and noise, my last coherent thought was a bitter, ironic one. Future Joshua had warned of ruin. He'd said staying with me would bring disaster.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I was the disaster.

I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and the muted beeping of machines. A rescuer' s voice, muffled and distant, had pulled me from the rubble of my collapsed apartment building. "We've got a live one here!"

Now, white sheets were pulled up to my chin. My leg was encased in a heavy cast, a dull, throbbing ache radiating from it. A nurse with kind eyes checked my vitals. "You're very lucky, honey. Just a broken tibia and some nasty bruises. You took quite a hit."

She helped me sit up. The emergency room was a scene of controlled chaos. Doctors and nurses moved with grim purpose, the air filled with pained moans and hushed, urgent conversations.

And then I saw him.

Joshua was standing across the hall, his back to me. He hadn't seen me yet. His expensive shirt was torn and covered in dust. He looked frantic. For one wild, stupid moment, I thought he was looking for me.

My heart gave a pathetic little leap of hope.

Then he turned, and I saw who he was with. Amelia was clinging to his arm, looking pale but otherwise unharmed. And standing beside them, a phantom visible only to Joshua, was the older, colder version of him.

"She's fine, see?" Future Joshua said, his voice laced with impatience. "Just a few scratches. Now, what about Clara? You need to make sure she's okay."

Joshua's head snapped up, his eyes scanning the chaotic room. They landed on me.

The relief that washed over his face was so profound it was almost comical. He took a step toward me, his mouth opening to say my name. Amelia's grip on his arm tightened, and she let out a small, pitiful whimper.

Instantly, Joshua' s attention snapped back to her. My moment of importance had lasted all of two seconds.

Future Joshua looked over at me, his expression utterly flat. There was no concern in his eyes, no flicker of the love I knew-or thought I knew-from the boy I'd grown up with. He saw my cast, my bruised face, and his gaze was as cold and clinical as a doctor examining a specimen. This wasn't the man I loved. This was his soulless, pragmatic echo.

I couldn't take it. The physical pain in my leg was nothing compared to the agony of being looked at like that. I lay back down, pulling the thin hospital blanket over my head, wanting to disappear.

"What happened to her leg?" I heard Joshua ask the nurse, his voice tight with a guilt he had no right to feel.

"A piece of the ceiling fell on her," the nurse explained calmly. "She'll be off her feet for a while. We'll need to admit her."

"I'll take care of her," Joshua said immediately, a desperate edge to his voice.

I heard the sneer in Future Joshua' s reply. "And who will take care of Amelia?"

Joshua' s resolve wavered. I could feel it, even from under the blanket. He was being torn in two, and I was on the losing side of the battle.

The nurse returned, pushing a wheelchair. "Alright, Ms. Holt. Let's get you to a room so you can get some rest."

As they wheeled me away, the argument outside the emergency bay escalated. It wasn't a whisper anymore. It was a roar.

"What is wrong with you?" Joshua's voice was raw with fury. "Look at her! She's hurt because of this! Because of you!"

"She's an obstacle," Future Joshua's voice was like ice. "A temporary problem. Amelia is the one who matters. She is your future. Clara is your past. The sooner you accept that, the less pain you'll cause everyone."

A sickening thud echoed down the hall, followed by a grunt of pain. Joshua had hit him. He had punched his own future self.

A small, dark part of me felt a flicker of satisfaction. But it was extinguished almost immediately by the crushing weight of reality.

I was wheeled into a quiet, sterile room. The door clicked shut, but I could still hear them. Lying in the dark, with my leg throbbing and my heart in pieces, I listened to the boy I loved fight with the man he was supposedly destined to become, arguing over which of us was more disposable.

And I knew, with a certainty that left no room for hope, that no matter who won this fight, I had already lost.