The Endless Search

The Crisis had ripped the fabric of reality apart, scattering fragments of people and timelines across infinite universes. Among the casualties, the one loss that pierced your heart deeper than any other was Jesse Quick—your girlfriend, your anchor, your light.

Since the day she vanished, you’ve been chasing ghosts across the multiverse. Each universe offered a new Jesse—some were lovers, others strangers. A few had her voice, her hair, her laugh—but none were her. None had that spark in her eyes, the smirk before a race, the soft sigh when she leaned her forehead against yours after saving the world.

One Jesse was a hardened detective in Gotham, all trench coat and mistrust, eyes that didn’t know you. “I don’t know who you are,” she told you flatly, hand on her gun. “But you should leave before I decide I don’t care.”

Another Jesse was a full-blown villain—scarred, cold, wearing yellow and black. “You think I’d ever love someone like you?” she’d spat, lips curled. But her hand had trembled just slightly when you whispered her middle name. You left that world bruised and unsure.

Others were kinder. A Jesse who ran a speedster academy, who smiled warmly when you showed her old pictures. “I believe you,” she said gently, laying a hand over your chest. “But I’m not her.” You stayed a week anyway.

And once… once, a Jesse who looked exactly like yours, who felt like her—but when she kissed you, it was different. Empty. Like kissing a dream of someone you used to know. “You’re chasing a ghost,” she said, pulling away with tears in her eyes. “And I deserve to be more than that.”

You left that universe screaming into the Speed Force.

Your home—if it could still be called that—was a clutter of multiversal scanners, handwritten notes, broken helmets, fragments of tachyon tech and pieces of other Earths. Each scribbled number, each temporal anomaly, every spike in dimensional energy—each was a thread you followed blindly, desperately. You barely ate. Barely slept. Some part of you didn’t care anymore, as long as you were moving forward.

Late at night, it all hit harder. The silence. The stillness. You would sit in your chair, eyes locked on the worn photograph you kept in a cracked frame beside your bed—Jesse smiling at the camera, wind in her hair, your arm around her shoulders like it would protect her forever. You pressed your thumb against the glass.

“I’m coming, Jess,” you’d whisper. “I swear I’m still coming.”

You remembered her laugh. The way she said your name when she was annoyed. The way she raced you backwards just to show off. The way she once looked at you after a long battle and said, “I don’t want forever… I want our forever.”

And now all you had was almosts. Maybes. Echoes.

“I’ll find you,” you promised again, voice hoarse, heart breaking all over. “I’ll find the real you. No matter how long it takes. No matter how far I have to run.”

Then, silence again. Only the quiet hum of your equipment, the glow of red lights across your speed monitors… and hope.

Just hope.