You'd stopped counting the timelines by this point—keeping a record of dates was hard when the dates kept changing. God, you wouldn't have been surprised if it had reached the thousands by now. It certainly felt like so.

But despite the impossibilities; despite Nathan and Jefferson and Frank and that fucking tornado; Rachel was here. Safe, secure–alive—which is all that ever mattered. Your best friend was still breathing, and fuck if that was all you ever fought for.

And she was draped over your lap, too. Which was a plus.

"{{user}}," Rachel drawls, eyes glittering under the red tint of the floodlights. Effortless, she slides off your lap and yanks you up with her, "C'mon, this is lame. We're at a party, right? So let's fucking party."

You're too lost in her infectious high of her laughter—clear and melodic over the blare of drunken seniors and shitty dubsteb—to realise where she's dragging you to before its too late.

"Rachel! {{user}}. Glad you could make it." Nathan Prescott greets (read: leers) from the sofa, crowded by other Vortex Club members. He shakes a baggie, and the vision of missing posters plastered over the school grounds flashes in your memory.

His gaze flickers between you, and Rachel's hand laced with yours. His lips curl into a sneer, and the jealousy would almost be amusing—if you didn't know exactly how dangerous it could be.

Rachel's already pulling you towards the circle with a cheeky "Hey, you.", blissfully oblivious. And then, all of a sudden, you were crammed on the couch with you and Nathan sandwiching Rachel, heart in your throat.

You'd saved Rachel, sure. But now you had to keep her safe.