Chapter 23: The Melissa Six-Month Mark
Six months feels significant in a way that three months or four months didn't.
We're at Rosario's, this Italian place Melissa found that does the pasta thing right—fresh-made, not from a bag. Cloth napkins. Real candles. The kind of date that acknowledges we're past the testing phase.
"Six months," Melissa says, raising her wine glass. "Half a year of putting up with you."
"Pretty sure you enjoy putting up with me."
"Most of the time." She grins. "Remember our first date? When the power went out at that first restaurant?"
"And we ended up with Chinese takeout on my balcony."
"Best disaster date ever."
We clink glasses. The wine's decent—I can afford decent wine now. The Apple gains plus shop revenue plus the convention earnings mean money isn't tight anymore. Not wealthy, but comfortable. Breathing room.
"You were so nervous," Melissa continues, clearly in reminiscing mood. "Like, visibly nervous. Kept adjusting your collar."
"I was terrified."
"And now?"
"Now I'm—" I consider the question seriously. "Content. Happy. Not terrified."
"Good. Because I am too." She reaches across the table, takes my hand. "This works. Us. It's easy and comfortable and I really like it."
"Me too."
"Which is why I want to talk about—" She pauses, choosing words carefully. "The future. Not like, immediate future. But where this is going."
My stomach does something complicated.
"Okay."
"I'm thinking maybe we should consider moving in together. Eventually. Not tomorrow. But like, six months from now? A year? Just... start thinking about it."
The panic I might have felt six months ago doesn't come. Instead, there's this warm certainty spreading through my chest.
"I'd like that."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Not rushing, but definitely thinking about it."
She squeezes my hand, clearly relieved. "Good. Because my lease is up in October and I was starting to stress about whether to renew or—"
"Don't renew. We'll figure something out before then."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
We finish dinner in this comfortable glow of relationship stability. No drama. No uncertainty. Just two people who like each other planning a shared future.
Walking to the car afterward, Melissa loops her arm through mine.
"You've changed a lot since we met," she observes. "More confident. More settled. It's nice."
"Shop's doing well. That helps."
"It's more than the shop. You carry yourself differently. Like you know where you're going."
Because I literally know where everything's going. Because I have future knowledge and supernatural advantages that create success that creates confidence.
But I can't say that.
"Success breeds confidence?" I offer.
"I guess. It's good though. You seem happy. Actually happy, not just going through motions."
She's right. For the first time in either life—my previous existence that ended with steak and void, and this existence that started with panic and transmigration—I'm genuinely happy.
The shop's thriving. The investments are paying off beyond expectation. I have friends who show up at 7 AM to knock down walls. And I have Melissa, who wants to build a future together.
The powers created opportunities. But this? This feels earned.
Dropping Melissa at her apartment, she kisses me properly before getting out.
"Thanks for dinner. And for the future talk. And for being you."
"Thanks for putting up with me for six months."
"Anytime."
Driving home, I think about the conversation. Moving in together. Shared space. Shared life. The kind of commitment that requires honesty and vulnerability.
Can I do that? Live with someone while hiding this massive secret?
The question sits uncomfortable in my chest. Because Melissa knows successful Stuart. Shop owner Stuart. Lucky Stuart who makes good predictions.
She doesn't know transmigrated Stuart. Void-touched Stuart. Stuart with supernatural memory and attraction powers and the ability to see the future because he lived it once before.
My phone buzzes at a red light.
Melissa: Already thinking about how to decorate our future place. You're in trouble.
Stuart: Good trouble or bad trouble?
Melissa: The best kind.
I pull into my apartment complex, looking at the studio I've lived in since taking over Stuart's life. Small, functional, temporary.
October's five months away. Enough time to find a place together. Maybe rent a house? Two bedrooms—one for us, one for Melissa's art studio.
The future's taking shape. Real, solid, tangible.
And maybe that's enough. Maybe I don't need to tell her about the void, the powers, the impossible knowledge. Maybe this version of me—successful, confident, happy Stuart—is real enough.
Melissa: Goodnight. Love you.
The words freeze me mid-step.
Love you.
We've been together six months. We're planning to live together. But neither of us has said that word yet.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Stuart: Love you too.
Send.
Inside my apartment, I collapse on the couch and stare at the ceiling. In my previous life, I died alone. Bitter. Unsuccessful. Unmourned.
In this life, I have someone who loves me.
The powers gave me the tools. But I built this myself. The relationship, the connection, the person Melissa fell for—that's real.
Has to be real.
I choose to believe that.
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