Archive of Our Own

[...]

quererte fue una fiesta

y aunque parece que esto se acaba

nada se muere, tan solo cambia

es el momento, mira tu vida

qué bien lo has hecho y qué bien vivida

— amaia, despedida

The world is ending today.

Helen doesn’t know that yet. It’ll take a bit longer until she comes to that frankly strange realization. Right now, however, it doesn’t matter to her, because all that Helen knows and can think about is the fact that her boyfriend wants to fuck the main actress within approximately two minutes of the curtain rising.

He doesn’t even have to say anything. Helen knows, because Bobby is simply that kind of man—the kind that turns his head to look at other girls while walking hand in hand with Helen, the kind to gasp under his breath at the sight of a beautiful woman on a commercial on TV, never caring that Helen is literally sitting next to him.

So Bobby doesn’t have to say anything. He just leans forward in his seat with his mouth slightly open every time the actress appears onstage, like he’s witnessing some kind of divine apparition instead of a mediocre regional theatre performance of Macbeth.

Helen sits beside him with her arms crossed.

“I thought you said you didn’t care about theatre,” she mutters.

“But she’s so—it’s so…” Bobby stutters, gesturing vaguely. “... entrancing.”

Onstage, the actress dramatically makes her way to the front of the stage and kneels, her eyes staring somewhere beyond the audience, wide and bright and so alive, as she recites the lines that Helen knows so well.

Unfortunately, Bobby is right.

The actress is incredible. Helen doubts that Bobby actually knows the meaning of the word entrancing, but he surely hit the nail on the head with it, and that’s what irritates Helen the most. If the actress were merely beautiful, Helen could dismiss her. Beauty is common and manageable—there are beautiful women everywhere, enough of them that their beauty becomes a distraction for Bobby, but never a temptation.

But talent—talent on top of beauty, to make things worse—feels greedy somehow. Unfair.

The actress commands the stage effortlessly. Every line lands perfectly, every gesture is intentional and meaningful. She understands the character, the lines, the weight of every word.

Helen hates her instantly.

“Oh,” Bobby breathes.

Helen considers strangling him, though she quickly decides it’s not worth the effort. Sometimes, in moments like this, she wonders why she’s even dating him—then she remembers that it’s not like she has a lot of other choices.

“She’s overacting,” Helen says—Helen lies—just to spite him.

Bobby gives her a look.

Helen ignores him and turns back toward the stage, mostly so she can continue evaluating exactly why this actress is managing to get under her skin just by doing a good job in a play full of below-average actors, tacky costumes and poorly-made sets.

She thinks that perhaps it’s the fact that she knows people are watching her. Helen can tell—there’s a particular kind of arrogance to performers, to all artists, who understand they’re the center of attention and love to gloat over it.

At one point, the actress crosses the stage and briefly looks toward the audience. For a second, the briefest and strangest of moments, Helen swears she’s looking directly at her.

Her eye twitches. Bobby sighing dreamily beside her doesn’t exactly help.

“Could you please stop—”

Helen’s angry whisper is cut off when the lights suddenly flicker overhead. She frowns, a few people in the audience murmur, but nothing else happens—a slight technical issue, she assumes.

Bobby doesn’t even seem to notice, and Helen is about to make another snarky comment when she’s once again interrupted by the lights flickering, longer this time. The stage illumination is cut out for a second, plunging the theater into darkness before snapping back.

The whispers are louder this time, Helen can hear a few gasps here and there. Onstage, however, the blonde actress doesn’t miss a beat. She keeps speaking through the strange interruption flawlessly, almost as if this was all part of the play and not an unexpected malfunction. Helen considers the thought, but something in the actress’ eyes—the slightest hint of panic behind her confidence—tells her that nobody on that stage expected this.

The audience applauds and Helen rubs at her temple with a sigh.

When the play finally ends without any more interruptions and everyone stands to clap for the company, Helen once again finds the blonde actress staring at her with a smirk on her lips.

Helen rolls her eyes, but the actress’ smile only widens.

***

Something has felt wrong all evening.

It’s not just that Bobby spent the entire show ogling another woman right in front of Helen. There’s something strange in the air, an inexplicable heaviness that Helen can’t quite put her finger on. The subway stalled twice on the way here, and her phone lost signal downtown—nothing too unusual, but just enough coincidences in a single day to make Helen’s evergreen anxiety start buzzing somewhere on the back of her mind.

She walks behind Bobby, who continues to talk about the play with a dazed expression, as if he’d actually understood something.

“She looks a bit like Marilyn Monroe, doesn’t she?” he says, glancing over his shoulder at Helen. She blinks once, twice, trying to make sense of what he’s saying.

“Lady Macbeth?”

“Yeah,” Bobby says. “I mean, the actress, she—”

Helen pushes past him, effectively silencing him.

“I’m going to the bathroom. Wait for me outside,” she growls. Bobby says something behind her back, but she neither hears him nor wants to hear him.

She wanders aimlessly through the theater’s hallways in the opposite direction of the people streaming out of the auditorium onto the street, a murmur of voices discussing the play and the strange technical glitches. Helen ignores them, her mind clouded by anger and frustration. It seems unfair to her that this has to be the way it is—that she can’t have a normal date with her boyfriend without his attention wandering to another woman. That Helen has to spend her days knowing she’ll never be anyone’s first choice, their constant.

Maybe Helen is simply destined to be alone, she thinks with a bitter smile.

Her gloomy thoughts are suddenly interrupted when her body suddenly collides with someone else’s. Helen stumbles, but manages to keep her balance with a snort.

“I'm so sorry, are you—?” she begins, but stops herself when she looks up and, as was to be expected, finds the blonde actress standing right in front of her, rubbing her shoulder with an offended expression, as if Helen had bumped into her with the sole intention of hurting her. “Oh.”

“The dressing rooms are private,” the actress says, her smile sickeningly sweet. “Fans aren’t allowed in.”

Helen grimaces, offended. Does she look like the kind of person who’d be a fan of some random actress in Newark, of all places?

“I wasn’t trying to sneak in. I’m not a fan,” Helen explains, trying not to sound too irritated. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

The actress smiles. She looks amused, as if Helen were challenging her to something—Helen doesn’t know what.

“Come on, you don’t have to lie,” she says. “Don't think I didn't notice the way you were looking at me throughout the whole show. Don’t worry, you’re not the first Madeline Ashton fan to try to—”

“Who the hell is Madeline Ashton?”

The actress’s smile freezes on her face. The corner of her lip twitches slightly, her bright, proud gaze suddenly darkening. Something crosses her face—something between anger and embarrassment—and Helen suddenly sees the real person behind the magnetic actress.

“It's me,” the actress says, but Helen already knows. She knows because she's glanced at the program, but above all, she knows it from Madeline's expression—her fragile artistic pride suddenly wounded by someone she clearly considers inferior.

Helen stifles a smile.

“Well, I'm really sorry, Madeline Ashton, but I don't care—”

Her words, whatever snarky remark she’d managed to come up with dies suddenly in her throat when the entire building around them shakes. The fizzling tension between them dissipates into a new emotion, stuck between confusion and fear, as they look at each other, trying to find an answer in the other woman’s face and only finding the very same feeling staring back at them.

“What the fuck was that?” Madeline says, glancing around the empty corridor, her voice slightly higher than before.

Their phones buzz simultaneously, and Helen is the first to pull hers out, staring at the screen with wide eyes. There are no messages or missed calls from Bobby, just a huge emergency alert that does nothing to calm her nerves:

EMERGENCY ALERT

NEW: This is an emergency alert from your local authority. An EVACUATION WARNING has been issued in your area. An unknown astronomical event has been detected. Remain vigilant of any threats and seek shelter while preparing to evacuate.

Somewhere across the hall, screams ripple through the people running out of the building. The lights die, leaving Helen and Madeline engulfed in the eerie light of dusk, before the dim red emergency illumination floods the hallway.

Madeline stands perfectly motionless next to her, staring at Helen as if she has answers to all the questions they have.

Helen doesn’t think. She can’t think, so she lets her body move on its own, lets her anxiety do something useful for her for once in her life. For some reason, she grabs Madeline’s arm, fingers digging at the warm skin of her elbow.

“We should go,” she says simply.

Madeline follows her.

The crowd surges toward the exits in a suffocating wave, programs scattered across the floor. Outside the theater doors, sirens scream through the streets. Helen pushes through the crowd onto the sidewalk, her hand still firmly wrapped around Madeline’s arm, and stops cold.

Cars crash at intersections as drivers stop watching the road. Nearby, there’s a bunch of people on their knees, praying—some with fear, some with glee. A small group of teenagers have their phones out, taking pictures of the chaos; it looks like one of them is livestreaming the whole thing.

The air on the street is hot, buzzing against Helen’s skin. Run, she thinks. Every cell in her body is telling her to do it—run, run as fast as you can, as far as you can. But where to run to, she has no idea.

Helen pulls Madeline without thinking, dragging her away from the theater crowd.

“Move,” she snaps.

“What is happening?”

“How could I possibly know?”

They walk without any sense of direction for a while, dodging people running frantically in the opposite direction, mothers crying as they hug their children, dogs barking at nothing in particular in the sky, and cars abandoned in the middle of the road. Helen walks and Madeline follows her, and for some reason that calms her; for some reason, having a stranger by her side means this situation hasn’t yet caused her to have a panic attack.

“Helen!”

Helen turns around, looking at Madeline. Her heart raced in her chest for reasons unrelated to the situation around them, she realises, then promptly ignores the thought. What she finds are her bright blue eyes, filled with tears and blinking rapidly, confused.

“What?”

Of course, it couldn’t have been Madeline, because this damn apocalypse interrupted them before they could finish introducing themselves.

“Helen!” The voice calls out to her again, and this time Helen sees its owner—it’s Bobby, limping toward them, waving his arms to get her attention. Helen’s heart skips a beat. She had completely forgotten about him.

“Helen, thank goodness,” Bobby says, barely catching his breath when he reaches them. “I thought something had happened to you,” he says, and then he sees Madeline. “What are you doing with…?”

The ground suddenly bucks violently beneath them. Bobby yelps as Helen grabs him before he falls, and all three of them nearly crash to the pavement together in a tangle of limbs.

For one absurd moment, everything is quiet.

Lying on the floor, certain she is about to die, Helen looks up. In this moment, full of fear and panic, all she needs is something to hold on to. Her eyes meet Madeline’s. Up close, the actress is even more beautiful. Even more frustrating. Madeline stares at her, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise, her face pale, her trembling hand still clinging to Helen’s arm.

Helen thinks she’s going to cry. Maybe she’s going to scream, to uselessly beg for her life to whatever deity she thinks might be able to help her in this moment. But when Madeline opens her mouth, all she says is, “Helen.”

Bobby makes a wounded noise beside them.

And somehow, impossibly, here in the end of the world as she knows it, standing at the edge of dead itself, with the end looming dangerously close to her, the only thing that Helen manages to say is:

“Madeline.”

Usually, the first day of school is Madeline's favorite day of the year.

For her, there’s a special kind of thrill in watching her new students walk into the classroom for the first time, their bright eyes lighting up with excitement as they listen to Madeline talk about her plans for the school year. A new audience every time, she thinks, though she would never say it out loud—she highly doubts other teachers would approve of her referring to her sixth-grade students an “audience”.

But as she stands in the brightly painted multipurpose room, arranging cardboard castle walls for the upcoming drama club production, she can't help smiling at the thought; she can almost hear the excited gasps when she shares a new script to practice, can almost hear the laughter, can almost already feel that little seed of passion blooming inside a student when she finally manages to encourage them to let go of their inhibitions and immerse themselves in the roles assigned that day.

Being a kid with nothing but your whole life ahead of you, nothing but dreams and hopes inside you, must be wonderful. Madeline can almost remember what that felt like—or she would, if she could somehow remember anything other than the fact that she’s pretty sure the world ended and she died with it.

But if anything, that makes this school year more refreshing: no earthquakes, no solar storms or meteors, no apocalypses besides tragic Math tests.

"Madeline?"

The principal is standing in the doorway, accompanied by a woman carrying a cardboard box full of books. When their eyes meet, Madeline's stomach immediately drops.

The woman is a little different than she remembers—taller, younger, her eyes a different shade of green—but then again, Madeline is pretty sure she also looks slightly different than last time, or at least the woman she sees reflected on the window next to her isn’t exactly the same woman who died when the world ended.

(Madeline thinks she looks hot anyway, and that’s all that matters to her.)

Different face, different body. But in spite of it all, Madeline recognizes her instantly.

"You've got to be kidding me."

For a moment, the woman simply stares at Madeline in confusion, the slightest frown on her face, and Madeline thinks that perhaps she might have actually gone insane. That certainly is more plausible than meeting this woman again, a woman she shouldn’t even be able to recognize because she hasn’t actually met her, not her, not in this life.

But then the woman’s eyes widen, her shoulders sag, her mouth forms the most perfect o shape, her hand moves to point at Madeline like she’s some kind of freak in a circus.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

And Madeline can’t help it, so she lets out a chuckle because of course that’s the first thing that comes out of this woman’s lips.

"It’s you,” Madeline says, and much to her horror, she sounds a lot fonder than she intends to.

The principal blinks, his eyes moving from one woman to the other, confusion clear in his usually calm expression.

"Uh… You two have met before?"

"No," both women say simultaneously.

"I mean. We have," Helen corrects stiffly, "technically speaking.”

The principal—who very clearly does not want to know any more details about this situation—laughs awkwardly.

"Right. Well, Madeline,” he says, forcing the same sweet smile he uses with parents who don’t listen. “I wanted to introduce you to Helen Sharp, our new English teacher."

Helen—she’s still Helen in this life, Madeline notes, just as she’s still Madeline—offers a strained smile. Madeline returns it with equal enthusiasm.

"I'll let you two get... acquainted."

He rushes out of the room as fast as he can, though he’s polite enough to pretend he isn’t desperate to get out of there to escape the strange tension brimming in the air. Madeline can’t help but wonder what’s going through his brain, what this looks like for anyone watching from outside. Does he think they’re old friends who haven’t gotten over their differences? Exes, maybe? Or just two very odd women he should probably regret hiring?

Silence settles over the room for a second as the two women stare at each other, still in disbelief, still trying to recognize the face, the voice, the woman they both can still remember next to them in their last moments on Earth.

“You look… different," Helen says finally.

Madeline isn’t sure if she means it as an insult or a compliment.

"So do you," she says.

“Do you…” Helen licks her lips nervously, knuckles whitening as her fingers tense around the cardboard box still in her arms. “Do you remember it?” 

Madeline stares at Helen—at this Helen that doesn’t look quite like the one in her memories—and thinks that, if she closes her eyes, she can almost see herself standing in front of her tiny dressing room, her Lady Macbeth makeup still on. If she tries hard enough, the voices drifting in through the open windows won’t be from teenagers and other teachers, but the audience mumbling under their breath. If she tries hard enough, she can find herself inside the theatre, can still hear the applause ringing in her ears.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I remember everything.”

Helen places her box on a nearby table, and Madeline can see her hands shaking ever so slightly.

"Do you know what's causing it?"

It? Madeline thinks. What could Helen possibly mean by that? The apocalypse, the memories? The fact that they both died but have found each other again, and somehow they both remember?

"No."

Helen sighs. "I don't either."

And for some reason, Madeline feels the strangest relief passing between them, a small, unwanted understanding between two people caught in the most bizarre situation. Because in this life, Madeline has spent years wondering whether she'd imagined everything, whether she'd gone insane.

Yet here stands Helen, living proof that the world ended and somehow Madeline didn’t quite die when that happened.

"Well," Madeline says, recovering quickly, "at least we know we're not crazy."

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Helen says, rolling her eyes, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile on her lips, and for a moment, Madeline swears she sees the woman from the theater again, the same annoyed twitch of her lip, the same stubbornness.

Maybe that’s why it’s at that moment that the bell suddenly rings, the hallway erupting with noise. There’s a scream, there’s the sound of people running, of doors slamming open, voices overlapping, a soft rumble filling every empty space in the building.

“Is it—is it happening? Do you think this is…?” Helen says, staring somewhere beyond the open window in horror.

Madeline shrugs, and she feels oddly calm, watching Helen next to her.

“Probably,” she says.

It’s not much, but at least they’ll have each other when the world ends again.

Helen is waiting for her third coffee of the day when she finds Madeline again.

She’s checking the time on her phone while tapping her foot impatiently, as if that would make time pass more slowly and the line move faster, when a strange yet familiar voice calls her name.

“Helen?”

Helen hopes that, by some miracle, the barista has remembered her usual order and prepared it without asking. However, when she looks up, what she finds is a familiar face—not her usual barista, a kid with tattoos and different coloured hair every week, but a woman. The last face she saw before the world ended the last time.

Madeline has changed, but Helen recognizes her. She recognizes her because, for some reason, Madeline looks exactly the same as Helen did the last time they saw each other, except her hair is blonde instead of red.

She blinks. Maybe the universe is running out of imagination.

“You again,” Helen says, only moderately annoyed.

“Thank God you found me, Helen,” Madeline says, a beaming smile on her lips, and something twists in Helen’s stomach. “I won’t have to endure this shift when the world ends. I hate Mondays.”

Helen is inclined to agree. The mere thought of going back to her office to sit in front of a computer, fielding calls and emails from useless clients, makes her think that maybe the apocalypse isn’t such a terrible thing after all.

“Are you implying it’s going to happen again this time?” Helen says.

“Well, if past experiences are any indication, I’m afraid so,” Madeline says, shrugging. “What do you think it’ll be like this time? I hope it’s quick. Stress is terrible for your skin.” Her smile turns sharp. “Though I think you already know that.”

“I'll have a large iced Americano,” Helen says, ignoring the comment. “I’m in a hurry.”

Madeline rolls her eyes with a smirk, but turns away to prepare Helen’s order. Unfortunately for her, the world doesn’t end right then.

Unfortunately for Helen, the world ends eight hours later, when she finally leaves the office after a few hours of overtime that no one will pay her for, especially not now, and her gaze meets Madeline’s across the street.

Helen doesn’t even flinch when she hears the first explosion. 

By the time Helen meets Madeline again, she has already accepted the inevitable fact that the world’s days are numbered.

That’s why, when the magazine she works for sends her to interview Madeline Ashton, the new global pop sensation, Helen doesn’t prepare any questions. The only thing she says when Madeline walks into the room is, “How long do you think it’ll take this time?”

Madeline smiles. She looks a little sad this time.

“Four days,” she says.

“Last time it was two,” Helen replies. “Do you think it’ll take twice as long this time?”

“I don’t know. I doubt there’s any logic behind this,” Madeline says. “All I know is that you and I always end up finding each other,” she adds, sighing wistfully. “Fifty bucks?”

Helen, who feels her heart beating faster than usual for some reason, blinks.

“Excuse me?”

“Fifty bucks that this time the world will take four days to end,” Madeline says.

Helen raises an eyebrow.

“And when do you plan to pay me if I win?” she says. “Three days.”

“The next time we find each other, of course.”

***

(Madeline is true to her promise and gives Helen her fifty bucks.

This time, it takes almost a whole week before the stars in the night sky suddenly start fading.)

World after world, life after life.

It never ends.

Sometimes, they meet immediately. Sometimes, it takes years. Sometimes, Madeline thinks this is it, and even though part of her craves the sweet, definitive relief of a true ending, she can’t help but feel slightly disappointed at the thought of not finding Helen again.

But that never lasts long, because they always find their way back to each other.

Perhaps the most preposterous part of it all is how somewhere along the way—neither can remember exactly when it happened anymore—the annoyance begins to fade, softening into something that both of them refuse to name.

Madeline is still unbearable, according to Helen, who is still impossible, according to Madeline. Those are the things that never change, no matter the setting, the era, the time they spend together. That’s where the fondness begins to bloom, the relief of familiarity at first.

Where is she?

Every lifetime begins with the same question. A different purpose each time—finding each other, not finding each other, all with the same inevitable ending.

There you are.

Madeline and Helen always end up finding each other, and the world always ends.

That part is always different—the sky turns blood-red, the world burns or freezes, reality comes apart at the seams and frays everything they know.

But somehow they never lose each other.

Madeline wakes to warm sunlight, and the first thing her brain registers is that the ceiling above her is unfamiliar, with white-painted and crossed with wooden beams. No stone walls or neon lights sneaking in through the window this time, so this seems promising so far—she hates the weird fantasy lives; in them, she can never really tell when the end is coming.

Based on her (admittedly strange and concerningly extensive) experience so far, she prefers to know when to expect the end. It makes everything less… disappointing.

For a moment, she doesn't move. She lets her eyes adjust to the morning light, carefully inspecting the place. Not a palace, not a prison this time. Just a warm bed in a seemingly ordinary room, soft sheets draped over her body, and the faint murmur of the streets drifting in through the half-open window. Just a bedroom, entirely too big for one person.

Madeline’s hand moves before she can decide she wants it to, her fingers brushing the empty space beside her on the mattress, trying to remember something about this new life. The first moment is always confusing, a flood of strange memories jostling for space in her mind, always piling up, always with the same ending. Always the same eyes, the same face—though not quite—staring at her.

Please be here, Madeline thinks, a silent and certainly futile wish for the universe—the same universe who keeps making her do this again and again and again—to ignore.

She swings her legs out of bed and stands, watching the room under the warmth of the sunlight. There’s a closet across the bed and, next to it, a mirror in which Madeline thinks she recognizes her face from one of her other lives. Framed photos adorn the wall, one of the walls is lined with bookshelves, and there’s a pile of clothes lying scattered on the floor, a pair of shoes is carelessly tossed near the door—all of it simple signs of a life, a real life. Not one she's lived long enough to remember just yet, but one that clearly belongs to her.

And to someone else.

Her gaze lands on a photograph on the nightstand.

The woman smiling back at her is unmistakably herself, older than some lives, blonde hair cut into a bob. She looks happy (happier than last time at least, where she was trapped in some weird film noir where everyone seemed to think she was the bad guy) even if her hair is a mess, even if the picture wasn’t taken at the most flattering angle.

Beside her stands Helen.

“Oh.”

A strange warmth spreads through her chest, then something sharp hits her right through her ribs. Recognition, at first, because Helen also looks a little different than last time. Then—shock, perhaps. Confusion, certainly. The tiniest sliver of disappointment.

Because if Helen is here, somewhere in this house, it means that Madeline won't have to go out and look for her anymore. They won’t have to play their little game of cat and mouse this time. It means that Madeline will just walk out of the room and find Helen there, as she inevitably does in every life.

It means that the end is near.

As if on cue, she hears the faint clatter of dishes downstairs, the soft hum of a radio playing a song that sounds oddly familiar. Madeline follows the sound, making her way through this place she can’t quite recognize yet but that she unmistakebly identifies as home.

Home, she repeats the word in her mind as she opens the door of the kitchen, only to find Helen standing there, just as Madeline remembers her—always a little different but always the same, the only constant in this neverending cycle that Madeline is stuck in.

Madeline stops in the doorway.

“Helen.”

Helen turns, and their eyes meet for the first time in this life.

Madeline wonders, as she so often does, if this is the root cause of it all. If the moment their eyes meet in every lifetime, something somewhere in the universe is suddenly triggered to make the end come crashing down on them.

Deep inside, she hopes and prays and begs that it isn't.

“Madeline.”

A shiver runs down Madeline’s back. She tells herself it’s the anticipation of knowing what’s coming next. She knows it’s a lie.

Helen raises her hand. Something glimmers on her finger.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, but—apparently, we're married.”

In spite of herself, Madeline laughs softly. Of all the absurd things they've experienced together, this feels like the most ludicrous.

“I know.”

Helen sighs, but says nothing more. In any other situation, she would have complained—just as she did when she had to be a sorceress in the service of Princess Madeline, just as she protested when she had to be her manager in that world where Madeline was a popular actress, just as she had done so many other times she had to spend her last days stuck with Madeline. Madeline can’t help but wonder if Helen has finally accepted her fate or if, for once, being with her doesn’t feel like such a terrible idea.

“Coffee?” Helen asks.

“Please.”

Helen pours one without asking how she takes it. This doesn’t come to a surprise, because they’ve spent countless lives learning each other and the circumstances may vary, and the world around them may be different and crazier every time they meet, but there’s one thing that always remains the same: them.

Madeline and Helen.

“Here.”

Madeline takes the mug. Their fingers brush, but neither pulls away. The feeling is familiar and comforting, grounding in a way that Madeline welcomes. Something she remembers in a world she doesn’t know yet.

The silence between them isn’t awkward—they’ve known each other for too long for it to be—but rather a quiet stretch of time for them to settle, to accept that what they once knew is gone and that this is their reality now.

"So…" Madeline says eventually. "Do we know how long we have?"

Helen's expression softens in a way Madeline has never seen before, and her heart skips a beat at the thought that there might still be things for her to discover even now.

“Longer than usual, I believe,” Helen says, not looking at Madeline.

“How much longer?” Madeline presses.

Helen shrugs, but Madeline can see the slight tension of her jaw and shoulders, the way her fingers curl around her mug.

“Years, probably.”

Madeline blinks. She must have heard that wrong. Last time, they had… Well, she doesn’t remember how long it was but it couldn’t have been so long. It certainly didn’t feeling that long, though her mind is still a mess of memories, and some of them do feel longer than others, but… No, it’s impossible. It can't be.

“Years? Are you serious?”

“I mean, I don’t think we can really tell, but…” Helen sighs. “That's what I figure, yeah.”

Years. The first time they met, they barely had a few minutes. Minutes later turned into days that turned weeks, but years… It’s the longest they've ever had.

Madeline doesn't realize she's smiling until Helen points at her.

“What the hell are you smiling for?” Helen says, and the annoyance in her tone, the way her eyebrows twist into the most charming frown makes Madeline’s smile widen. “I don’t trust you, Madeline.”

Madeline laughs, and somehow this becomes the shape of their life.

Of this life, at least. A life already lived, though neither of them can quite remember it yet. An infinite puzzle of old memories to put together and new memories to create.

A love already built, waiting for them to catch up.

Madeline can’t help but think that she wishes it could last forever this time.

Just as Helen predicted, days become weeks that become months that become years.

If this were a different version of Madeline—maybe the actress, the villain, the selfish princess—she would be annoyed. Such a long time, years for the first time, spent with Helen of all people. Helen, who’s always stuck-up and boring and loves to pretend she finds Madeline aggravating even if Madeline can see right through her.

If this were a different version of Madeline—one that doesn’t sigh with relief every morning when she finds Helen fast asleep next to her—she might have actually found a way to enjoy these years, instead of being gripped by dread with any passing day.

The problem is that this version of Madeline loves Helen. No, scratch that. The actual problem is that this version and every other version to come of Madeline loves and will love Helen, which means that now Madeline doesn’t have to worry about what the next life will bring her, as long as it brings her Helen back to her.

The thought of never seeing her again terrifies her. The idea that this might be their last time—even if, according to Helen, it’s mathematically impossible—keeps her awake at night.

In a way, Madeline regrets it. She regrets that they had time, and that it never felt like it was enough. On some days, she even wishes it hadn’t been like this—that they hadn’t found each other this time, because maybe it’d have meant that it wouldn’t have to end. Madeline would be content like that, knowing that Helen is out there somewhere. For her, it’d have beeen more than enough.

But now the end is near again, and Madeline can only regret that she’s lived a life of wasted time. A time spent mourning something that wasn’t even gone yet.

This time, they’re sitting on the porch when it happens. Above them, the sky cracks open, splitting the golden hour like a broken vase. It’s not the most chaotic ending they have experienced; it’s not violent like the earthquakes, it’s not painfully slow like the ice ages.

But this one hurts more than any of them. Madeline feels it inside her chest, torn apart like a mirror of the sky, the deep-set certainty that this is, indeed, the end. This time, unlike the others, she finally has something to lose.

Beside her, Helen reaches for her hand. Madeline doesn’t look at her, just holds on tightly, hoping that it’ll keep them close. Hoping that once this life is over, they’ll open their eyes and find each other again, hand in hand, as they were always meant to be.

“I liked this one," Helen says, her voice achingly sad. “Shit, I thought—”

“Yeah.” Madeline laughs through the lump in her throat. “Yeah, me too.”

The sky continues splitting apart over them.

“I really liked this one, Mad.”

People run through the streets without knowing where to go, cars speed pointlessly along the roads. Someone screams in the distance, and the screams spread like wildfire. Fear is a terribly contagious disease, but quiet settles between Madeline and Helen. For them, sadness weighs heavier than any other emotion.

Madeline leans her head against Helen's shoulder.

“We had a pretty good run this time,” she says.

“We did,” Helen says. “I'll miss it.”

Madeline closes her eyes.

“So will I.”

She wishes they had more time. Realistically speaking, she knows no amount of time would have been enough for them, not in this one. Madeline knows she should be satisfied. It was a pretty good life, after all.

Madeline can’t remember the last life that felt this… normal. From the very first moment, and in spite of their constant bickering, they learn to share a life. They fill the house with books and unfinished projects: Madeline learns to bake, Helen studies French. They try to garden together, but grow bored of it quickly.

They develop simple routines—morning coffee, evening walks, movie nights, Sundays spent reading together on the couch—and ordinary moments that feel bigger than anything Madeline has experienced in her multiple lives. The celebrity status, the supernatural powers, the magic, none of that compares to the rush of waking up and finding Helen downstairs every morning, smiling at Madeline like she’s been waiting for her all this time.

One time, after one too many glasses of wine, Madeline kisses Helen—because it’s been too long since the last time she kissed someone, because she’s wanted to kiss her for at least five lifetimes now—and, surprisingly enough, Helen kisses her back.

(Madeline wishes the world would have ended then, in that very moment, because it would have been one hell of a last memory.)

Life goes on, and so do they. Sometimes, holding each other at night, listening to the other’s heartbeat as they fall asleep, they forget that this is going to end. Sometimes, when they’re together, the world is endless and infinite, and time is not something they need to care about. But the world has to end, and so has their time.

Helen turns to look at Madeline, her eyes bright with sadness and perhaps something else. Hope, Madeline thinks. Helen looks at her the same way someone would look when bidding farewell to someone they know they'll never see again.

But Helen smiles, because she knows they absolutely will. They will find each other again, no matter when or how.

"What do you wanna do next time, Mad?" Helen asks.

Madeline smiles.

Because there’s no answer for that question, really. This will all happen again, and again, and again. And then it’ll keep happening, until Madeline and Helen lose count of all the times it has happened before, and all they’re left with is the knowledge that this will happen again, because it has happened before, and there’s nothing they can do about it other than wait for it.

Each time will be different. Sometimes shorter, sometimes longer. Most of those times, they will be only able to remember the end—the moment they finally find each other, when their eyes meet and suddenly the memories wash over them, and they just know what’s going to happen next.

They’ll be everything and nothing. They’ll be the same, but never exactly the same. Sometimes, Helen will be a little taller, a little leaner. Other times Madeline will be younger, with green eyes instead of blue, then the next time it’ll be the other way round, and then one time they’ll look exactly the same, and neither will understand exactly why.

One time, Madeline will be just a girl. Other time, she’ll be just a woman. She’ll be a housewife, living across Helen’s house; another time, she will find herself holding the hand of a little girl that looks a lot like her but talks too much like Helen. One time she wakes up, unable to quite remember Helen, but another time it’ll be Helen who doesn’t remember her. She’ll be a knight, a fey, a vampire. She’ll be everything she has ever imagined, and then some—an editor, an Olympian, a law student, a stripper, a teacher, a chef. She’ll die but not really, and she’ll kill Helen, who also won’t die, and maybe Helen will kill her too, but it’ll be okay because it’ll be Helen who does it, anyway. She’ll be Madeline—a version of Madeline that’s happier than she remembers, or a version that’s utterly miserable—but never quite the same Madeline.

And every single time, Helen will be there.

“I don't care,” Madeline says, squeezing Helen's hand three times. “As long as I can find you again.”

Together, they watch the world end.