Too Late For Your Love

I was a time traveler, driven by love to 1972, spending five years as a shadow to folk singer Nathaniel Hughes, crafting his career and believing I was finally winning his heart.

But that dream shattered the night before our wedding when, in a moment of chaos, Nathaniel brutally shoved me aside to protect his childhood flame, Jennifer Clarkson.

He didn't even see the wound, a deep gash on my shoulder, as he rushed to her, his true devotion laid bare. His casual gesture threw me to the ground, but his words, "Jennifer's safety is more important," cut deeper.

How could I have been so blind, so foolish, to think I could outrun destiny and break a bond so profound? My love, my efforts, even my future knowledge, were just tools for him, eventually cast aside for the woman he truly adored.

Then, caught in an anomaly during my forced return, I plummeted from the sky, my memories shattered, landing at the feet of "The Hatchet," Andrew Scott – an unexpected savior who would forge a new empire and choose me first.

My name is Stella Gordon, and I'm a time traveler. My "System," a weird, unexplained hum in my head, lets me do it. I used it to come here, to 1972, for one reason: to save Nathaniel Hughes.

He's a folk singer, a genius, and the man I' ve loved from across fifty years of history. Back in my time, he' s a legend, a tragic figure who died young, haunted by his unrequited love for his childhood friend, Jennifer Clarkson.

I was going to fix that. I was going to save him, and he was going to love me instead.

That was the plan.

For five years, I lived that plan. I became his shadow, his friend, his most devoted follower in the sun-drenched, drug-laced world of Laurel Canyon. I used my knowledge of the future to help him. I found him rare guitar strings from a shop that wouldn't exist for another decade in my history books. I transcribed his complex, swirling melodies that no one else could follow. I was indispensable.

And it worked. I think it worked. He was a recluse, a monk dedicated to his art, but he let me in.

Then came the party at the record label executive' s mansion. Jennifer, now married to that powerful man, was there. Someone slipped something into her drink, but in the chaos, Nathaniel drank it instead. It was a tumultuous night. He broke his strict, self-imposed rules. He slept with me.

The next morning, he was filled with guilt. He saw it as a stain on his artistic soul, a penance he had to pay.

"Stella," he said, his voice quiet, his eyes not quite meeting mine. "We should get married."

My heart stopped, then exploded with a joy so fierce it hurt. It wasn't the proposal I dreamed of, but it was a proposal. It was a start. It was enough.

The night before our simple wedding, we went to another party, this one hosted by Jennifer's husband, the head of the label. A rival band, drunk and aggressive, started a fight. It was a blur of shouting and shoving.

A man lunged toward Jennifer with a broken bottle.

Before I could even process it, Nathaniel moved. He shoved me hard. I stumbled backward, hitting the ground with a thud. He didn't even look at me. He threw himself in front of Jennifer, his arm raised to protect her.

The glass sliced deep into his hand.

Blood bloomed on his simple white shirt.

Someone rushed over. "Nathaniel, are you okay?"

I heard his voice, clear and steady despite the pain. "Jennifer's safety is more important."

The words hit me harder than the floor did. I looked down at my shoulder, a searing pain I hadn't noticed before. A deep, ugly gash was bleeding through my dress. He hadn't seen. He hadn't looked.

In that moment, I knew. I had failed. His heart was never mine. It was always hers, his white moonlight.

It was time to go home.

My System gave me the notification, a quiet hum in my mind: Return sequence initiated. Departure in five days.

Five days. That was all I had left in the 1970s.

I spent the next day packing. Not my clothes, but my memories. I took out a simple cardboard box and started filling it.

Five years of handwritten notes, my desperate attempts to decode his musical genius. The wedding dress I was sewing by hand, the needle still stuck in the unfinished hem. His old, worn-out guitar picks I' d collected like holy relics. A photo of us, him looking serious and me looking at him with an adoration that was painful to see now.

Each item was a piece of my foolish heart.

My roommate, a kind-hearted hippie girl named Luna, watched me with worried eyes.

"What are you doing, Stella?"

"I'm leaving," I said, my voice flat. "When I'm gone, can you give this to Jennifer Clarkson?"

Luna frowned. "Jennifer? The executive's wife? Why her?"

"Because," I said, closing the lid on the box, "she's the rightful keeper of his legacy. These things belong to her world, not mine."

I was giving up. I was surrendering his memory to the woman he truly loved. It felt like tearing a part of myself out, but it also felt right. It was the only way to cut the cord.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I walked to his secluded cabin, wanting one last look. I stayed hidden in the trees, a ghost at the edge of his life.

A car pulled up. Jennifer got out, looking frantic and guilty. She ran to his door.

He let her in immediately.

I crept closer, close enough to hear their voices through the thin cabin walls.

"Nate, I'm so sorry," Jennifer sobbed. "It's all my fault. If I hadn't married him... you never would have hidden yourself away like this."

"It's not your fault, Jenny," Nathaniel's voice was softer than I had ever heard it. A tenderness reserved only for her. "It was my choice."

He became a recluse after she married someone else. The fact, laid bare, was a final, brutal confirmation. I was just a visitor in the ruins of their love story.

I watched as he held her, his hand stroking her hair. He looked at her with a warmth, a deep, aching love that he never, ever showed me. I was a friend. A helper. A responsibility.

She was his soul.