Only together for seven weeks, the end of the week would sign their two months Tilda couldn’t have so much knowledge without having been told.

Weston caressed his shirt’s pocket as he came to join her on the bed.

“Tilda.”

“Yes.”

“ーEm, before I start, let me tell you I will accept any punishment you’ll inflict me, I apologize in advance if I sound like a complete nutter, but it’s something I need to clear up before proceeding with the other crazy thing I want to do. What’s even insane is after this, you might not want to be with someone as insane as me.”

Tilda tightened her grip on the T-shirt she was holding, her heart raced. The questions were going to come out again, with all the pain and sorrow they carried. Of all the scenarios, this one was the hardest to bear.

“Go ahead.”

“Tilda, you know I love you, unconditionally. When I look at you, I don’t see Tilda Brentwood, but my half, you are half of me. It’s crazy because I’ve only known you for eight weeks. You know, I’ve been having these weird dreams and visions of you, of us. I don’t understand theyㅡthey ーfrighten me at times.”

“Weston.”

The man began to pace, “and you do things, good things, but odd things,ーI mean, you are aware of what’s going to happen. More wrinkles appeared on Weston’s face as he tried to organize his argumentation before pursuing, “like the other day when you pushed me aside when the teen rode by on his micro-scooter, and I’ve never seen you search for anything in this house.”

Weston stopped, approached Tilda and knelt in front of her, “you know where everything is, and oh, there’s my book, how did you get into my computer? I mean the screen was on standby, you needed the password, how did you?”

Once again, Weston was up and pacing around.

“Weston, please sit down.”

There was no stopping the man who carried on, “Tilda, I’m not accusing you of anything I just want to know. I need a rational answer so that I can put my mind to rest because with these flashes and the things you do, and I’ve got to admit it’s freaking me out.”

“Westonㅡ.”

“Tell me, Tilda, please,” Weston said as he came to kneel before her taking both her hands in his.

“You told me.”

“Whatㅡwhat do you mean? I told you.”

The tears were already leaking as she pursued,” you told me the first time.”

“What? I don’t remember having said anything.”

“You did the first timeㅡ.”

“What first time? Tilda, I don’t understand.”

For once, Tilda’s stared straight at Weston as she answered, “the first time we went through this.”

“Tilda, what on earth are you talking about?”

Tilda let go of Weston’s hand and got off the bed, Weston followed gripping her by the shoulders, “Tilda, don’t run, talk to me, please. I can see you’re suffering; you think I don’t know you sometimes cry while cooking or in the middle of the night. Please, Tilda.”

The silent tears became big whaling sobs, Weston let go of her and walked to stand close to his bedroom window.

“You and I, we’ve met before, we fell in love andー.”

“And what?” Weston searched Tilda’s face as if the answer would write itself upon it.

“We’ve lived these eight weeks before.”

“How? How can we live these eight weeks before? You mean like groundhog day?”

Tilda shook her head, “we’ve repeated this.”

Weston strode to stand in front of her, “Tilda, it makes no sense how can we repeat these eight weeks?”

“In your shirt pocket, you have a ring; you bought it before your parents came.”

“Tilda, how do youー.”

“When you went walking with your father, you told him you were going to make your proposal, your father first mocked you, before saying life is too short.”

“Tilda, tell me, how do you know that?”

“Your father told me.”

“How how can I father have told you? When?”

“He told me,” Tilda stopped.

“When Tilda, WHEN?” Weston yelled.

“AT YOUR FUNERAL,” Tilda returned before collapsing on the floor.

Weston knelt and grabbed Tilda by the shoulders, “Tilda what are you saying, this is crazy, it’s impossible.”

“You are going to propose to me tomorrow, and two days after that, you will die while crossing a red light.”

“I would never do that.”

“But you will, and you will die.”

Weston shook his head, “I don’t believe you.”

“Thomas called you earlier. He told you that Mary-Elisabeth, and he was divorcing.”

“Tilda howー.”

“I told you, we’ve done this before.”

“What are you a time traveler? You said I’m dead, are we in heaven?” Weston asked.

“No, I’m not, and we’re not in heaven.”

“Then what? Is this some sort of virtual reality, the Matrix?”

The writer’s imagination had no boundaries; anything was possible from his standing point.

“No.”

“Then tell me,” Weston said as he wiped the abundant tears on her cheeks.

“We’re in purgatory.”

“What?”

Weston looked around, the environment in which they evolved didn’t resemble the vision he made of a place like a purgatory.

“It’s impossible, why would we be in limbo? I mean, if what you say is true I died of a natural cause, I don’t think I was a nasty prick deserving this.”

Tilda lowered her head, “it’s not your purgatory; it’s mine.”

“Why would you be in purgatory?”

Tilda cried, she could not stop, her tears fell and diluted themselves on her jeans in a mosaic of tie and dye.

“Please, Tilda, I need toー.”

The flash of her in the bathroom with the razor above her wrist came slapping Weston with its reality.

“Tilda, don’t tell me youㅡ.”

Weston took two steps back, his eyes pricked, and he squinted to see clearly.

Tears, bigger and faster, streamed down Tilda’s face.

“Oh, god Tilda no, no,-” Weston said as he approached to take Tilda in his arms while the tears he fought back began to fall.

“I couldn’t live without you, I couldn’t Weston, I couldn’t,” Tilda said, shaking her head violently in his arms. “Weston, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

At this instant, Weston hated himself; he felt like a murderer. The man felt as though he was the one who slit her wrist. Weston was disgusted by his behavior; during eight weeks, he lived on cloud nine while Tilda lived fright.

After a few minutes, Weston pulled away. Everything Tilda said seemed crazy and irrational, but so were the visions he saw.

Weston’s thoughts raced as he attempted to assess the situation.

“Tilda, how long have we been- I mean, how many times have you lived this?”

“I stopped counting when I got to 500.”

“What you’ve lived these eight weeks over five 500 times,” Weston gasped. “With 500 alone, you’ve done this 4000 times, Tilda.”

Tilda collected her thoughts, eyes darting she explained, “At first I didn’t understand, I found myself at the Lone Horizon bash, and you were there, alive. I ran and jumped on you-you thought I was crazy. The second time you called the cops after two weeks, and I got arrested for stalking. It was only at the 10th time I understood that everything was reset whenー.”

Tilda paused.

“When what?”

“You die.”

“So, you are telling me that on Monday, all this will start over?”

“Yes.”

“What if I don’t go out of the house?”

“I tried, I try to stop you. When I do that, all I need to do is blink or fall asleep for the reset. I even jumped off Tower Bridge; I even got run over with you; it doesn’t change a thing. We always start over. I went crazy, the first 100 times I attempted to stop it, I watched you die. I tried to change a few things, but you always die.”

“Do you always observe the scene?” Weston said face wet with tears t-shirt drenched in sweat.

Tilda lowered her head.

“Oh, my God, Tilda thisㅡthis.”

“It’s true, Weston; I’m not lying.”

“I know, I know,” he whispered, “is it the first time I realize?”

“No,” Tilda said, sniffing what her nose left to drip,” you’ve done it before, and recently you are doing it a lot.”

“But then, it’s the reset,” Weston said, understanding how it worked.

“You forget, and we start over.”

Weston had a problematic time seizing the information, he looked at the woman who cried wanting to deny this reality, but he saw the truth in Tilda’s eyes. There was no way to refute this existence.

“I’m sorry,” Weston cried consumed by guilt because of him she had taken her own life, and now she suffered years of torment watching the person she loved die over and over again.

An eternal disk of suffering, being burnt in flames, seemed sweet compared to this predicament.

What shattered the man’s heart was how sincere Tilda was after all this time, there was no play in the woman’s behavior he could have sworn it was the first time they fell in love.

Were Tilda’s feelings renewed with every reset?

Could something so unlikely happen?

Impossible, Tilda collected every memory, the good and the dreadful. Weston imagined the stocks of images she had and the pain which oozed out with every tear.

Images of her shaking body in his arms came to mind, this fragility he sensed was all these stigmas of pain. Weston didn’t even want to think about how many years of suffering she went through.

“I will do this again, Weston. I rather live this forever again if this allows me to be with you.”

Tilda’s words made the man’s blood rush backward, anger and frustration tangoed together in his mind. Weston wished to die, but he was already dead.

Weston tried to calm Tilda’s nerves as much as he could until she fell asleep.

He thought there must be a way out; he suddenly jumped out of bed night had fallen since. Weston put on his sneakers and a sweater and went out. Standing in the middle of Montpelier square, he yelled.

“CAN ANYONE HEAR ME, PLEASE I NEED TO TALK.”

A flock of birds flew out the trees at the sound of his voice.

“Please, don’t yell like that, I can hear you,” a voice of someone emerging from the shadows replied.

“You.”