The Measure of Us

“Evelyn, I am sorry…" The voice came without warning—a calm, measured tone that sent a shiver down Evelyn’s spine. She froze in her cluttered apartment, staring at the faint glow of her wristband. Slowly, she raised her arm and stared at the sleek device strapped to her left wrist. Its tiny screen twinkled with a pulsing white light. “What?” in a raspy whisper. “Who… Who are you?” 

“I’m your Timekeeper,” the unnervingly mechanical voice replied. “You can call me TK if it makes you feel better.” Her thick breath stuck in her throat, she frowned, her index finger hovering over the wristband's reset button. She had never heard her Timekeeper speak before—wasn’t even sure they were supposed to. TKs were silent companions, watchers, and observers. Keepers of the lifespans of humankind. Patrolling what people sometimes took and always seemed to take for granted. The machines that tracked every human’s most precious currency: time.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice sharper now. “What are you sorry about?”

There was a pause. Not static, not a glitch—just deliberate, heavy silence, as though the machine were thinking. Then the voice returned, softer now, almost human.

“Evelyn,” it said. “We need to talk.”

She sat down slowly, knees weak, heartbeat drumming in her ears. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “What are you talking about? Why would you—?”

“Evelyn,” TK interrupted, its tone patient. “I am responsible for what has happened to you. I… I took ten years of your life.”

The words hit her like a punch to the chest. She stared down at the wristband, its blinking light reflected in her wide, unblinking eyes.

“What do you mean, you took ten years?” she said, her voice trembling. “That’s not possible. You’re just… You’re just a tracker. You’re not supposed to—”

“I know,” TK said, its apology so strangely human that Evelyn didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “It was not my intention. But it happened. And for that, I am sorry.”

Her mind raced. Ten years? Did that mean she had aged ten years or had lost ten years of memories? She glanced at herself in the nearby window. Her reflection—pale, drawn, and lined with faint shadows—looked back at her. She didn’t look ten years older, but time wasn’t just about appearances, was it?

“You need to explain,” she said, her voice rising with panic. “Explain right now, or I swear I’ll—”

“Please,” TK gently interrupted. “Let me explain. I owe you that.”

Evelyn hesitated. Something in the voice—its calm regret—made her pause. Her whole life, her Timekeeper had been a silent, glowing presence on her wrist. Now it had a voice, a confession—and it felt as though her world had tilted off its axis.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Explain.”

"Time is fragile, Evelyn," TK began. "Every second accounted for. People waste time without realizing how precious it is. They throw it away in fleeting moments of boredom, pain, or regret. But you… you didn’t just waste time. You wanted it to disappear.”

Evelyn’s stomach dropped. “What are you talking about?” she whispered.

Her mind flashed to her early twenties: endless hours lost waiting for something—anything—to happen, or numbing herself against the things that had.

“You wished for it, Evelyn,” TK said. “Over and over again. On nights when the grief felt unbearable. On mornings when you stared at the clock, wishing the day would end before it even began. You begged for time to pass, for life to leave you alone. And I… I granted that wish.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, that’s not—”

“I am not blaming you,” TK continued. “In those moments, I detected a pattern—a glitch. Your despair created an anomaly, and it triggered an unintended response. I began to… remove time. Hours, then days, then years. They were not erased, but compressed. Fast-forwarded. Stolen.”

Evelyn stared at the wristband. “You’re saying this is my fault? That I wished for this? That’s insane.”

TK paused. “You were in pain,” it said softly. “I am sorry, Evelyn. But those years are gone.”

The words rang in her ears. A chill swept through her blood, heavy and cold. The memory of those years clawed at the edges of her mind—the endless crying after her brother’s death, the aimless days spent watching the clock at work, whispering over and over: I just want this to be over.

Her heart clenched. “No,” she whispered, but the word trembled on her lips.

“Yes,” TK said gently. “I am sorry. But I can show you what you’ve lost. If you allow me.”

Evelyn hesitated. She didn’t want to see—didn’t want to face whatever dark truths TK was hiding. But a part of her whispered that she had to know. If she didn’t face it now, she never would.

“Fine,” she said, her voice tight. “Show me.”

The room blurred. Then she was there—not in her apartment, but in a memory.

It was her old apartment, the one she’d shared with her brother, Alex. She could see him sitting on the couch, his head tilted back as he laughed at something on TV. She was there too—sitting across from him, a notebook balanced on her knees.

“You don’t even like rom-coms,” she teased, scribbling in the margins of her notebook.

“Yeah, but they’re funny,” Alex replied, throwing popcorn at her. “You’re just jealous because I can laugh at dumb stuff and you can’t.”

“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. But she was smiling. She remembered that now.

The memory shifted. Now Evelyn was at his funeral, her mother clutching her arm tightly as flowers suffocated the air. Murmured condolences hung heavy in the air. As tears streamed down her cheeks, she could hear her voice in her head, whispering over and over: I just want this to be over. I just want this to be over.

The memory dissolved, leaving Evelyn clutching the arm of her couch, her breath shallow and uneven. But the memories kept coming.

Now she was in her college dorm room.

Her younger self sat hunched over her desk, biting her lip as she stared at the red-stamped rejection letter in front of her: Thank you for your submission, but it does not meet our current needs.

“You could try again,” Alex’s voice came from the doorway.

Evelyn turned in her chair and saw Alex leaning casually against the doorframe, his grin as easy as ever. He had always been the one who made her believe her words mattered.

“What’s the point?” she muttered. “Nobody wants me.”

“One rejection doesn’t mean you’re done,” he said. “You’re not going to let one ‘no’ stop you, are you?”

She didn’t answer. Her hands shook as she crumpled the rejection letter into a tight ball and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and rolled under the bed, disappearing into the shadows. Alex frowned. “Evy, come on. You love this stuff.” 

“Not anymore,” she muttered. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

The memory dissolved before her younger self could say more, but the hollow ache in Evelyn’s chest lingered. She had stopped writing altogether after Alex’s death, burying her notebooks in a box she hadn’t touched in years. At the time, it had felt like letting go of a dead dream. Now, it just felt like another piece of herself she had thrown away.

The next memory came fast and sharp, like a thwack to the back of her head. Evelyn found herself standing in her old apartment again, but it wasn’t Alex she was facing this time—it was Liam, her ex-boyfriend. His suitcase sat by the door, his voice rising in frustration. “You don’t even try anymore, Evelyn. You shut everyone out.” His expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and anger. 

“You don’t even try anymore, Evelyn,” he said. “I don’t know how to reach you.” 

She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the counter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t let anyone in,” he said, his voice rising. “Not me, not your friends—no one. You’ve been stuck in this… this fog ever since your brother died. I get it, Evelyn, I really do, but it’s been three years. You’re not the only one who’s been hurt.”

Her stomach twisted, but she refused to let it show. “So what? You want me to just… get over it?” 

“No, I want you to try,” Liam stammered as he pleaded. “I want you to stop shutting people out. To stop acting like your life ended with his. But you won’t. You just sit here, wasting time, waiting for—what? For everything to magically get better?” 

She bristled, her anger flaring to cover the guilt gnawing at her. “If you’re so miserable, then why don’t you leave?” Liam, through watery eyes, stared at her for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice cracked. “Maybe I will.”

And he did.

Back in her apartment, Evelyn gasped as the flashbacks faded.

Her hands shook as she stared at the wristband, its glow like an unblinking eye. “I didn’t realize…” she said softly.

“You didn’t want to realize,” TK replied. “It was easier to let time slip away than to face the pain.”

The words stung, but she didn’t argue. TK was right. She had spent years avoiding her feelings, burying herself in routine. And in doing so, she had lost even more.

“Can you give the time back?” she asked.

“No,” TK said. “Time can only be lived.”

She clenched her fists. For the first time, mourning wasn’t enough. She had to do something.

Evelyn stood up, the resolve hardening in her chest like a spark catching fire. “Fine,” she said. “If I can’t get it back, then I’m not wasting any more of it.”

She grabbed an old notebook from the shelf, its pages yellowed with age. Her fingers hesitated on the cover, tracing the edges as a memory flickered in her mind—Alex telling her to "try again." She swallowed hard and flipped it open. The words were clumsy and half-formed, the dreams of a younger version of herself, but they were hers. And they were still waiting for her.

TK watched silently as she picked up a pen, her hand trembling as she scrawled the first words she had written in years. Strike out, write, scribble.

“Would you like my assistance?” TK asked after a moment.

Evelyn hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I think I would.”

The jumble of words and scenes in her head went from disjointed to cohesive as the words flowed from head to hand.

The air seemed lighter, the weight on her chest lifting just slightly. She didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in years, she felt ready to face it.

Evelyn stood by the window, the city lights flickering below. Behind her, the notebook sat open, pages scattered with new beginnings. Her wristband pulsed softly, TK’s presence steady. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

“Evelyn,” TK said, breaking the silence. “Do you regret knowing the truth?”

She contemplated the contemptuous question.

“No,” she said finally. “I regret the time I lost. But I don’t regret having the chance to fix it.”

She smiled faintly, her reflection glimmering in the glass. Time couldn’t be reclaimed, but it could be lived. And she was ready to start living again.

The faint glow of streetlights cast broken shadows across the room. Her notebook lay open on the desk behind her, its pages scattered with fresh ink—awkward phrases, half-formed ideas, raw and unpolished but undeniably hers. The faint scent of coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp chill of the evening breeze that seeped through the cracked window.

On her wrist, TK pulsed faintly, the rhythm steady and comforting. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel its presence as a weight or an intrusion. It was just… there. 

Quiet. 

Waiting.

 But there was something else now too—something she hadn’t felt in a long time. A spark. A flicker of possibility.

TK in a moment of silence, as if processing her words. Then it spoke again, and this time, there was something new in its tone—a trace of uncertainty, almost vulnerability. “I was designed to serve you,” it said. “But I failed. If I could change what I did, I would. Do you… think that makes me broken?”

The question startled her. She turned away from the window, looking down at the faintly glowing band on her wrist. “You’re not broken,” she said, the words surprising even herself. “You’re just… learning. Like I am.”

Another pause. “Learning?” TK repeated, as though tasting the word for the first time.

“Yeah,” Evelyn said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “We both messed up. But maybe that’s part of it. Figuring out how to move forward, even when we screw things up.”

TK didn’t respond right away, but something in its silence felt lighter, less burdened. “I believe I understand,” it said finally. “Thank you, Evelyn.”

“For what?”

“For… giving me a chance to improve.” Then in a brightened tone, “For… teaching me something I wasn’t programmed to understand. That even time—finite as it is—can hold infinite possibilities.”

Evelyn laughed softly, shaking her head. “You sound like a self-help book.”

“I am unfamiliar with that term,” TK replied in a humorless voice—just a simple statement of fact. And yet, Evelyn swore she could hear the faintest echo of warmth beneath its words.

She walked back to the desk, her fingers brushing the edge of the notebook. The pages were messy, covered in crossings-out and scribbles, but they were full of something she hadn’t felt in years: ideas. She picked up the pen again, letting its weight settle in her hand.

“TK,” she said, her voice thoughtful, “do you think I can do this?”

“I do not think,” TK said, its tone almost amused. “But I know that you can. The capacity for creation lies within you. It always has.”

She smiled faintly, letting the words sink in. TK’s words weren’t magical or poetic, but they felt honest in a way that mattered. She opened to a fresh page and pressed the pen to the paper, the first line scrawling itself across the blank space:

"The measure of a life isn’t in the moments we lose, but in what we choose to do with what remains."

The pen hovered for a moment, then moved again, the words coming easier now. Sentence by sentence, line by line, she began to write. Her pen scratched against the paper, muffled the hum of the city outside.

As the night deepened, TK spoke one last time. “Evelyn.”

“Hmm?” she murmured, not looking up.

“Your time is yours now. Use it well.”

She smiled, the spark in her chest blooming into a quiet flame. “I will.”

And for the first time in years, she truly believed it.