Disclaimer: I do not own Life is Strange.
Rating: for strong language, non-graphic discussion of sex, references to kidnapping, death and non-consensual drug use.
A/n: This was originally a one-shot but I thought people might get fatigued trying it in one go, so I split into two (the second chapter is twice as long though). I'll post the second chapter tomorrow (or today, my time). And for those who get to the end and wonder if I wrote this to at least partly assuage my guilt after playing this game ... you wouldn't be entirely wrong (though, ironically, I was originally going to write a post-sacrifice Bay fic and this one popped into my head). Enjoy.
The Separation of Absence
1. Absence
It takes her weeks to finish the first stage of grief.
She knows. She knows that Chloe is dead. She's seen it happen so many times. She saw the coffin.
But.
She sees her. In the school parking lot, waiting for her to haul ass so they can start the next stage of their adventure. At the beach, watching the waves. In her room, dancing and laughing madly.
She's not there, of course. She'll never be there again.
She sees the worried looks of her friends but they don't understand. They see someone mourning an old friend, not … Chloe. Even Joyce and David, sweet as they are, don't fully understand. After all, Max hasn't seen Chloe for five years.
But.
She dreams that when she wakes up, Chloe will be there, next to her. She thinks, if she just goes by the Two Whales, she'll find Chloe, sponging free food from her mom. Or maybe, if she just checks her phone one more time, there'll be a text telling her to hurry up. She thinks, if she just, if … if she…
Anger and bargaining take longer. Months.
They come together, because the one person she's truly angry at is herself. She had the choice. Maybe that tornado would have gone away. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it doesn't matter, all these people, because what do they compare, to Chloe?
She makes bitter, caustic comments. She spends much of her time alone, unable to face what Chloe died for. Warren and Kate reach out to her, and she tries to let them in, but it's usually easier not to. Kate is easy to deflect, because she has her own problems and Max finds she has a sort of peace if she sits with Kate through them; Warren is more persistent and she knows she hurts him when she doesn't let him in.
In her worst moments, she tells the universe that it's not fair – why give her powers if she can't use them? Was it a life lesson? Because what was the point if she had to undo everything again? Sometimes, she wakes, gasping, struggling to raise her limbs or rubbing at her neck, seeing only Mark Jefferson, and that makes her furious. Other times, the howling of wind and battering of rain makes her cringe and she hates herself. So what was the fucking point? What if she took Chloe's place? Or Rachel's? Would everything be OK then?
She looks at the people she saved and wishes Chloe were more selfish, that she were more selfish, that she could look at them and wish them gone. Because that's the kicker. Deep down, she knows if she hadn't gone back, she and Chloe would never have lived with the guilt.
(She can barely touch her camera, just keeps it in her satchel, because God, that flash and she can't move and…)
She starts to walk in the places they were. She starts with the lighthouse, which is a mistake. She doesn't know what she's hoping for – the doe, maybe. Chloe, sitting on a bench, believing her. She goes to the cliff edge and for the first time wonders if maybe the answer is to jump. Make a sacrifice.
But Chloe wouldn't forgive her. She knows that.
She passes Chloe's house, but doesn't go in. She eats at the Two Whales, but it's too painful for her and Joyce, and nowhere is Chloe more absent than there. She stops, briefly, in the swimming pool but everyone laughing is too much.
She goes to the junkyard. She passes Rachel's early grave, but feels nothing. She walks along the train tracks but loses her balance. When a train passes by, she remembers Chloe screaming and shudders. She never wants to hear that noise again.
She goes to the hideout. The flyers and papers from before have flown away, but she can still see the signs of Rachel and Chloe. The dartboard on the wall. The cans and belongings strewn everywhere. Posters and graffiti on the wall.
CHLOE WAS HERE
RACheL WAS HERE.
Once, she'd written max was here, but of course, that never happened.
YOU'RE ALL GONNA DIE
RACheL IS HERE
She shudders. But the more she looks at the graffiti, the more she wonders whether maybe Chloe found Rachel, wherever they are. If they're together and happy. After a few seconds, she picks up a nearby pen, and draws a circle around their statements.
"Hey. HEY!"
She jumps and the circle goes askew. When she turns, she sees a blond-haired man running towards her.
"Hey!" he shouts again. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Nobody," she says because here and now, that's exactly who she is. They've never met. She's never tried to shoot him, seen him die, talked to him in a diner as he huddled from the storm. Here and now, Frank Bowers is just a scary stranger.
"Nobody, huh," he says and his familiar drawl makes her shiver. "Then what the fuck you doing here?"
"Just looking."
"Well, look somewhere else." He pauses and frowns at her. "Hey, I know you." For a moment, her heart hammers because maybe, maybe- "You were at her funeral. Chloe's."
Disappointment, mixed with anger at herself for being so stupid. "Yeah," she says. Something occurs to her. "How do you know that? You weren't there."
He shrugs, though he looks a little sheepish. "I went to look. Me and Chloe, we had business."
She smiles for what feels like the first time in months. "You're a good person, Frank."
"For attending a funeral? You high, ki-" He pauses. "How d'you know my name?"
She freezes. "You, uh, know some of the students at Blackwell."
This seems to satisfy him. "So what you doing here anyway?" he says. "How'd you know Chloe?"
"We were friends," Max says because that's safe and because her throat hurts with the effort of pretending that's all they were. Her eyes flicker away. "I wanted to see her … here…"
Frank nods. "I get that." He nods at the wall. "Rachel was my girl, you know? They were always together, those two." His face darkens. "Good thing they arrested that Jefferson prick or I'd have fucking killed him. Him and Prescott, those sick fucks. Fuck! And they used my fucking…" He seems to rip at nothing, and Max takes a step back. But then he calms himself. "I think of 'em sometimes. Up there, somewhere. Rocking out. Like to think they're happy. Waiting for me, even, though God knows I don't deserve it."
"I want to think that too." She looks around the junkyard, trying not to think how Chloe won't be waiting for her, not after what she did. Chloe will only remember her as the girl who didn't even bother to keep in touch.
"Hey, hey, I'm not interesting enough for you?"
"Huh? No. I mean yes but…" She sighs. "Sorry." She looks around again. "I guess I hoped they'd be here."
He nods, like it's the wisest fucking thing he's heard all day. "I gotta get back. Was meant to be…" He doesn't seem to have it in him to lie. "Whatever."
They walk out of the hideout together. After an awkward moment, he turns and heads past her, to the railway tracks. She watches him go and, almost automatically, takes out the disused Polaroid camera from her satchel and snaps a photo.
He turns immediately. "What the fuck?"
She shakes her head, not sure what's come over her. She hasn't touched her camera since … well. But she takes the photo, shakes it, and looks at it.
It's a great shot. Frank is walking, hunched, but his head is tilted slightly towards the hideout. The hand with Rachel's bracelet is out towards the edge, as though searching for someone. Wordlessly, she shows it to Frank.
"The fuck is this?" He looks at it some more. "She's not there."
Her eyes sting as she looks at the absence of Rachel in the photo. "No," she says. "I know."
It's depression after that, and that lasts another two years, into college. She studies photography, because what else does she have?
After that photograph in the junkyard, it's not felt as dirty. It's helped, in a way, to have that barrier back again. To have something to focus on, other than what she did.
(Her nightmares of the Dark Room increase, and she doesn't know if the price is worth it.)
Warren and Kate make an effort to stay in touch, but they're the only two. She tries to put on a happy front around them, but they know her better than that. On more than one occasion, she's contemplated telling them but that means telling them about Kate falling from a roof; Warren being blown to pieces in a diner; Victoria, murdered by Jefferson; Max, taped to a chair, a needle to her neck; Chloe, Chloe, Chloe…
And they'd never believe her anyway.
(And God knows, Kate needs to focus on herself and needs Max to be strong for her.)
So she gets up. She eats. She goes to class. She takes photographs. She talks to Kate and Warren. She eats dinner. She goes to sleep.
She misses Chloe. She misses Chloe so fiercely, it aches.
It comes on her gradually, the sort of acceptance that she's gone. She couldn't put her finger on when it happens. She talks to people, a little more. She listens to music. She visits her parents in Seattle. She takes photographs and it's clean now, no stink of death or Jefferson there. She meets Kate every so often and smiles as Kate becomes Kate again.
She doesn't know that it stops hurting but it becomes a fact. She did this shitty thing. She's still here.
And Max Caulfield? Don't you forget about me.
She doesn't. She would never. She still sees hints of her around. She thinks maybe the photography helps. Because there's a theme, her tutors say, in the photos she takes. An absence of something. She knows what they mean because in so many of her photos, she can see Chloe, just out of shot. She never says that though. It's enough for her to know that others can see that she is there somewhere. It feels right.
Her friends say, "One drink won't hurt, you know."
She doesn't drink but she can't explain the Dark Room to them.
Her friends say, "You can crash over ours, if you want."
She makes excuses because how can she explain the nightmares that grip her, sometimes?
Her friends say, "You have some weird-ass fears, Caulfield. I get needles. I kinda get storms. But trains?"
She laughs that one off because she's never had to pull her best friend away from train tracks, here.
She lets herself get into relationships. They don't last. Some are serious, some are not, but none of them are Chloe. Maybe that's unrealistic but that's the truth.
(Her first time is nothing like it would have been with Chloe – too serious, too fast, too rough.)
She can't explain it, in the same way that she can't explain why storms make her queasy, why nosebleeds make her feel sick, why needles make her tense. She tries once, when a boyfriend in the heat of the moment grabs her wrists tightly and induces a panic attack because she's trapped, she can't move and-
He apologises, of course. He's not Mark Jefferson. She splutters through tears and snot that it's not him, it's, she, she had a bad experience. But she can't explain it. She can't say it wasn't Mark Jefferson because he'll want her to report the culprit. She could pretend she doesn't know, or doesn't want to, but it will sound too similar. And Max Caulfield was not a victim of Mark Jefferson. Not here.
They break apart for unrelated reasons. She avoids romance for a while. When she returns to it, she alludes softly to the bad experience, asks for gentleness and usually gets it.
(Chloe would have understood. Chloe would have laughed and pushed the boundaries, but she would have backed off when she saw how Max was and refused to move forwards until Max was ready.)
They usually break it off for the same reason.
"I just feel like … shit, Max," they'll say. "It's like you're looking for someone else."
Which is entirely true and she hates herself for it.
Sometimes – the ones she's grown a little closer to – say, "You almost keep yourself apart. It's like you can't trust me."
That's only partly true. She does keep herself apart. Better that than let them trust her and then let them down too.
Her life moves on. She settles in San Francisco, because LA is somewhere Chloe should have been. She freelances as a photographer but makes submissions to galleries, and starts to become known in the photography world. It's strange, to achieve her childhood dream, when the people she knew then are long out of her life. She loses touch past emails with Warren, and Kate has her own life now, but Max has a few friends and it's not so bad.
She runs into Victoria, once. Victoria is also making her own waves in the photography world and people sometimes draw comparisons between the two, even though they have such different styles. Victoria makes awkward chat with her – she's grown since Blackwell but there's just too much distance between them to be more than acquaintances.
About ten years after Blackwell, she starts to think maybe she can live her life like this. Taking photos, fading into the background, living quietly. Not waiting for Chloe – not after she left her to die in a bathroom, unloved and unwanted – but accepting that maybe Chloe has Rachel up there and doesn't need Max anyway. Not quite happy but not unhappy.
But then she has the interview.
She's had interviews occasionally, in relation to her work, and this one doesn't start any differently to the others. The reporter is a woman around her age, dark skinned, long braids, a kind smile. Pretty, Max thinks absently.
(Chloe would already be laughing at Max, nudging her and telling her she has the hots for this stranger.)
She starts by asking about Max's earlier works – in particular, the missing person or persons. Her fans (God, it's weird to have fans) have theories about who it or they are. The only common theme is that each person is thought to be just outside shot. Some people have noticed a punk rock theme as well, though nobody's sure if there's a link.
She's recited these answers before, and it comes easily to her. She's not quite famous enough to warrant investigative reporting.
"It's not the same person," she says. "My first one, for example, the missing person is a friend of a friend." She glances at that picture taken in American Rust when she was eighteen. Frank agreed that she could use it as long as she never identified him. "The man's girlfriend," she adds. "She passed away a year before I took it." She smiles now, on cue. "And this is just a lucky shot." She points to another of her more famous images – at a busy crossroads, a teenager reaches for something to the side, hand on mouth, looking horrified. "He was reaching for a balloon that was flying away."
This is usually the point that the reporters move on, but this one says, "I always thought people misunderstood that one. Isn't the missing person next to you? Like you took the picture because it amused them?" When Max doesn't reply, she says, "It's the butterfly wing in the bottom right corner. I know some people think it's because it's one of your early ones but you're known for not using shots with sloppy details." She smiles winningly at Max. "Am I in the ballpark?"
"You're not completely off."
She freezes. She has never admitted that the picture is used because of the butterfly wing. Because Chloe would have found the teenager's expression amusing. The reporter's eyes widen but maybe she sees Max's tension because she says, "Well, your fans can thank me for sparking a new conspiracy theory then." She smiles at Max reassuringly. "Why is it you focus on absence though?"
"I don't," she says, glad to be on familiar ground again. "Presence and absence are together. You can't separate them: presence fills the void left by absence." She makes herself smile. "To quote my old professor. It's true, though. Photos capture a moment in time, a moment in the past, and let you see what was present at that precise second. " She shifts a little. "I feel like there's no real way to capture how absence feels. How it feels impossible that they're no longer there. In these photos, presence is just filling that void. It doesn't make it."
She's repeated it often enough but the reporter doesn't nod wisely, as though she understood what, to Max, sounds a little like bullshit. Instead, she freezes. Then she scribbles something down and says, "Let's move on to your most recent collection." She sounds rattled. "It's different."
It is. Max's last collection was about fears. Needles, blood, storms, trains, paralysis, fire, guns, heights (helplessness). Among others. It helped her, she thinks, to work through her fears. Sometimes, she'd almost felt like Chloe was next to her.
This.
Is harder.
"It's a strange mix, almost, between dark and twisted; and hope," the reporter continues. "The use of models – which I don't think you've ever used before – being almost constrained but each with that gap where they're freeing themselves. If you'll forgive me for saying so, it looks similar to Mark Jefferson's work. I understand he taught you before…"
Max closes her eyes. She'd known they'd ask that question but it still hurts. "It's inspired by him," she says, "but it's a fuck you to him."
The reporter snorts. "I'll edit that out."
"Understood." She swallows, to gather her courage. "Jefferson was obsessed with capturing corruption. I wanted to show that corruption is ugly but you can fight against shit like that." She swallows. This is harder than she expected. "That's why I used different ages and genders as well. He preyed on young women but anyone can be a victim and anyone can fight back. And Kate Marsh … she wanted to help."
"It works well," the reporter assures her. "The one that caught my eye actually is the one of Kate Marsh and you – I understand you don't pose for your own photos, generally."
"Not anymore."
"What caught my eye is that everyone else is alone and lying down. In yours, you're standing up from a chair, and Kate is ripping tape from you. And the look on your face…"
In the photo, there are tears in her eyes. The camera caught the exact moment when she realised she wasn't strong enough to do it, the exact moment where Kate had run across to save her. She used the picture to show how strong Kate had become. It was much better than the one she'd originally planned to use for Kate.
(She couldn't explain to Kate why she'd gotten so upset. She eventually invented a bad experience. Kate had sat there and held her for a very long time.)
The reporter waits for Max to answer, but she just rubs her wrists. So she says, "It made me think … I looked into it, but you weren't reported as one of Jefferson's victims."
She knows her voice shakes with emotion as she says, "No. I wasn't." She makes herself say, "Kate was the victim here. That's why I used this picture. She's the one who fought back."
The reporter thanks her for the interview, looking at her with a concerned expression.
At the end of the event, Max scoops up her jacket and is just walking out when she hears, "Hey, wait up."
Max turns to see the reporter from earlier. The woman smiles tentatively.
"I'm Hannah Okafor," she says. She's dressed in a smart blouse, scarf and trousers, but she sticks her hands in her pockets like a little kid. "Can we grab a coffee?" Max doesn't know how to respond. "I wanted to ask you something. Off the record. And apologise."
"Apologise?"
"Not here."
So they go. She's taller than Max but not as tall as Chloe was, and she seems to blend in perfectly with the streets. She leads Max to a busy coffee shop, a few blocks away. She insists on paying for the coffee.
When they're both sat with their drinks, she says, "I wanted to apologise for upsetting you earlier."
"I wasn't-" she starts even though nobody else was quite as intense as Hannah.
"You were." Max expects her to ask about Jefferson again, but she says, "The missing person. Someone you were close to?"
"As I said, it's different-"
"It's OK if you don't wanna talk about it," Hannah says. Max notes her voice is less clipped, friendlier. "I just wondered. 'Cause, to be honest, apart from that first one with the anonymous man, I always got the impression that the missing person is with you, not the subject."
"Yeah, you said about the balloon-"
"Not just the balloon one."
"D'you ever let people finish?"
Hannah pauses and then smiles. She has a nice smile. Friendly. No malice or anger. "Sorry," she says. "My brother says I get so excited about my theories, I just have to let them out. But, uh, OK, I'm gonna come across as a complete geek now but take this one for example." She looks up the photo on her phone. It's a concert but the band is just out of shot. "Everyone says this one's obvious 'cause the band's not there. But the photo's at a tilted angle. Like someone has their arm around you and pulled you, just as you took the shot. I always felt like the missing person is hugging you."
"I went with friends," Max says. But she shivers because Hannah is, once again, right. Max leaned to the left and back when she took the shot, trying to get the crowd. She used the shot because it felt like Chloe would have hugged her that way, if she were at the concert. She'd seen some memorabilia of this band in her room.
"How about this one?" It's a booth at a diner. It's taken from one side, so you can only see the person sitting opposite. That person is looking to the side off-shot. "I've heard people say it's the person the customer's listening to that's missing."
Max says, "You're right."
"But I- Huh?"
It feels odd to discuss her work with someone who gets her mental process. "The missing person's opposite the customer. The customer wasn't talking to anyone."
"Is someone missing in all your pictures?"
"Not in my most recent collection. She's only missing from one of them."
"She?" Hannah says and Max freezes. Gently, Hannah says, "This is gonna sound creepy but I really did do my research. Partly for this interview and partly 'cause, uh, I actually genuinely love your work so I got excited when they said I was coming to this. Uh. I read that what got Jefferson and that teenager arrested was a teenager being shot in a school bathroom. And I saw in, like, one article that you were an eyewitness and the victim had been an old friend of yours."
"I better go."
"Max, no, wait, I'm sorry. Shit, that's rough. I just…" She hesitates. "What you said earlier, it … I got it. About absence, I mean."
"What did I say earlier?"
"How you can't capture absence 'cause you can't capture the impossible feeling that they're no longer there." She's fiddling with her cup now, shoulders hunched a little. "It struck a chord."
"I'm sorry," Max says.
Hannah waves it away. "It was a long time ago."
"It doesn't stop it hurting though."
Hannah looks at her, brown eyes piercing. "No. It doesn't." She fiddles with the cup again. "I think it's kinda cool, you know. You doing this stealth thing where your, uh, person is the one hiding but nobody else knows it's her. It's like a personal reminder, just for you."
Max flushes. "It's totally freaky that you've worked this out," she murmurs.
"I won't tell anyone," Hannah promises. "Though maybe I'll have to avoid interviewing you." She frowns. "I didn't think this through. How'm I gonna explain this to my boss?" She perks up. "Oh well, I'll just lie."
Max can't help laughing, which makes Hannah laugh. Suddenly, the ice feels broken. Max asks her how she became a reporter and Hannah tells her how she loves to talk, to enquire, loves art and photography and this all came together for her. They don't talk about Max's work again.
She's friendly, bubbly and chatty but there's something sensitive there. She doesn't seem to mind that Max is reserved. Max discovers that they have similar taste in films and books. Hannah loves sport; Max does not. Hannah likes partying; Max does not. Max likes nature; Hannah could take it or leave it. Max likes Hannah's tendency to babble her thoughts in a stream; Hannah seems to like Max's dry comments.
She only realises how long they've been there when the barista comes over and tells them the coffee shop is closing. Max blinks. She can't remember the last time she enjoyed herself so much.
Hannah seems to think the same because as they leave, she says, "This was really fun. Would you be up for a movie on the weekend?" Max hesitates and she says, "Not … I mean, I am gay but I meant as friends."
Max smiles. "Yeah," she says. "Let's do it."
They go to the movie and grab dinner afterwards. Max learns that Hannah has one brother, that she grew up in Yerington, Nevada, but fell in love with San Francisco when she came here on vacation, that she studied at the University of Southern California but has lived here for five years.
Max tells her that she's an only child; that she lived in Arcadia Bay until she was thirteen and Seattle until just before her eighteenth birthday when she moved back to Arcadia Bay; and that she's lived in a variety of places since then.
"That's cool," Hannah says. "I'd love to travel."
"Chloe and I used to talk about going travelling. We listed out all the places we wanted to go but…"
Hannah leans forwards. "Chloe?"
Shit.
"A friend," she says, her throat burning with the fact that that's all they are, were, here. Hannah tilts her head and Max says, "She, uh, she was the girl who died in the bathroom."
"Shit, Max, I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago."
"Doesn't mean it stops hurting, though." She rubs at her collarbone. She does that a lot though Max can't tell if her clothes are itchy or not. It sort of reminds Max of Chloe, when Chloe wasn't baked or focused. "I guess you never went?"
Max gets the impression that that isn't what Hannah wanted to say, but she says, "Not like we planned. It was always my and Chloe's thing. It wouldn't be the same without her." It hurts but she says, "I can tell you all the stuff we came up with though. At the age of ten, so hella awesomeness guaranteed right there."
Hannah laughs. "Hella? Who says that?"
Max blushes. "Another Chloe thing." She looks down. "I found it hella annoying when I first heard it-" She sees Hannah wince out of the corner of her eye at that deliberate use. "-but … it's hard not to say it."
That look again but then Hannah says, "I'm gonna end up saying it, aren't I? Damn you."
Max laughs softly.
They start to hang out every weekend. Sometimes, they do stuff, like go to shops or galleries or for walks (Max's idea) or for a run (Hannah's idea and Max hates her for it especially as Hannah does it in long sleeves and how does anyone do that?). Sometimes, they stay in and watch movies. Sometimes they just sit next to each other and work. For someone so talkative, Hannah seems to value silence.
Max opens up to her, but slowly. She mentions Chloe to her, which is more than she's done with most people. Hannah tells her about her girlfriend, who passed away eight years previously. It's little things, though. She knows they met at college, that Kirsten was a terrible cook, a practical joker, wanted to work in marketing, that she loved animals. But she doesn't get a sense of Kirsten from these facts. She doubts Hannah gets a sense of Chloe. She has no idea how Kirsten died save that it was sudden.
A few people comment that Max seems happier than usual. Kate, when they next meet, says it's wonderful to see Max this way. Max smiles. She wonders what Chloe would think if she could see Max now.
But she can't. Because of Max.
"So I'm having, like, the best moment of my life and then my Mom walks in and I'm so startled, I sit up and nut her in the face. Boom. Absolute disaster."
Max laughs. Hannah grins.
"My mom told me she was disappointed in me, and I thought it was 'cause, you know, I hadn't come out and she was … but no, she thought knocking your girl out was bad form." Max laughs again. "How about you?"
"Huh?"
"Embarrassing date stories. Go."
Max shrugs. "I knocked a girl into a stream when I was trying to take a picture. I said that at least I got her wet but…" She frowns. "You know, maybe it was the pun that got me dumped."
"Probably, Caulfield." Hannah shoves her gently. Max pretends to topple but then sits back and leans against her. Hannah's comfortable, to lean against. It almost reminds her of- "Why are we so single?"
Max can't recall the last time she went on a date, but she says, "You did lose your last date in the zoo."
"She lost me."
"Yeah, you're blameless with an attitude like that."
Hannah shoves her again. Max laughs.
She's pretty. Max knows that.
She's smart, funny and progressing in her career.
She's a good listener. Not too much of a slob. She has great taste in movies.
She takes Max's fears seriously and never judges. She makes her laugh and confides in her.
When they hug, Max breathes in her smell and feels safe. Her arms feel solid and warm around her.
But.
"Max. Max."
Max sits up, gasping, to see Hannah's face looking over hers. They'd stayed out late. Hannah is sleeping over hers.
"Yeah?"
"Sorry," Hannah says. "You uh… You were shouting."
She'd dreamed of the Dark Room again, but this time, it was Chloe taped to the chair.
"Sorry," she says. "I should've warned you."
"That happens a lot?"
"I get bad dreams."
After a few seconds, Hannah says, "Yeah. Me too. I think you woke me from mine."
They look at each other in the darkness. Then Max hugs her. Surprised – Max doesn't hug often – Hannah hugs back. Max lies back on the bed and Hannah lies with her.
They fall asleep side by side.
It hurts to wake and remember a smell of chlorine and a dare but she just smiles and wishes Hannah a good morning.
That morning, months after their first meeting, they're sitting side by side on the sofa when Hannah says, "Hey, can I tell you something?" Max nods. "I just wanted to say … I dunno. Why I've never made a move, I guess." She sounds horribly nervous and uncertain, hands almost compulsively scratching at her collarbone. Max puts her mug down to look at her. "So, you know my girlfriend died, like eight years ago?" Max nods again. Hannah inhales. "We were completely, totally in love. We'd been together for three years and I knew she was the one for me. She was amazing, Max. She was so brave and funny and sweet and... Anyway. One day, we decided to go on this train ride to San Carlos. We were in the station when a fire broke out. We tried to leave but this giant sign collapsed and it caught her leg. I went to help her, but there were these three little kids nearby – they'd been badly injured and their parents…" She swallows. "She told me to save the kids. It was hot and there was smoke and I wouldn't have time to save everyone. She said it was them or her and … I saved the kids. Like she asked. We were the last people out. She died in that station, alone and terrified. Because I chose the kids over her." She's not looking at Max now. "Eight years and I'm still … angry. That I let her die. I can't be that involved again. I go on dates but I know… I know she told me to pick them but what kind of person lets their girlfriend die?" She breathes out. "So. Yeah. I don't … wanna do that again. And I like you too much to do that to you."
Max puts a hand on her shoulder. "I understand," she says softly. "Thanks for telling me. I … I get it."
Hannah nods. "I, I thought you might." She hesitates. "Chloe?"
"Huh?"
"You don't have to tell me but … I've kinda always assumed you and Chloe were more than friends." Max doesn't respond. "You don't have to tell me," she says again.
But Max looks at her, this woman who's somehow become her closest friend. Who maybe is the only person who can understand how Max feels. Because she made that choice too.
She goes to her room and digs out a small box. She brings it back and opens it, showing Hannah a photo of a butterfly and an eighteen year old Max, reflected in a bin.
"I should throw this away," she says softly. "The temptation to use it is…"
"Max?"
Max shakes her head. "If I explain I … I'll sound delusional. You wouldn't believe me. I'm sorry. This was stupid."
"If you're worried about sounding delusional, you probably aren't so… C'mon, Caulfield, tell me."
"I…"
"I promise I'll believe you."
"No promises you can't keep," Max says fiercely. It's one of her rules and Hannah instantly raises her hands placatingly.
"OK. I promise I'll keep an open mind. C'mon, you can trust me. You know that."
Max hesitates but Hannah has always kept her secrets. Hannah knows more about her than nearly anyone, even Kate. So she says, "I can travel through time. But I won't."
"What?"
Max scowls. "Forget it. This is-"
"Hey, keeping an open mind here. That's a lot to drop on me. OK. You can time travel but you're not going to. Carry on."
Max fidgets, suddenly unsure how to explain. "OK. Um. You asked me once if I was recorded as one of Jefferson's victims. And I said no." Hannah nods. "Th-That's true. In this timeline, I didn't go into the Dark Room. In two other timelines, I did. He shot Chloe and drugged me. I woke up and he'd tied me up and w-was taking photos. He, he strapped me to a chair and tried to kill me. I swapped timelines but had to go back s-so I did and changed something else and in the new timeline, he'd c-caught me again but changed…" She brings out her phone, finds her website and locates the picture of her, the chair and Kate. "I wanted to prove to myself that I was stronger now."
Hannah is quiet. Max is about to tell her to forget it again when she says, "You rub your wrists."
"Huh?"
"I noticed it when I was doing the interview. It's what made me wonder if you had been one of... You rub your wrists, like you're trying to get circulation back." She inhales. "Start from the beginning."
So Max does. She explains it with the photos of fears. How she saw Chloe die and rewound time and the next time, saved her. How she and Chloe reunited; the mystery of Rachel Amber. The snow, that first day. Kate's video (alcohol next to a pile of pills, flashing club lights in the background) ("Huh. I'd always thought that was about overdosing."). Proving her powers to Chloe. Testing her powers in the junkyard. The bottles. The bullet ricocheting from the bumper (a man walking, holding a gun in one hand and a bottle in the other) ("That … Max, you realise nobody knows what that one really means, right?"). Meeting Frank. Attempting to shoot Frank. The train tracks (a train hurtling past) ("Jesus, Max. I get why that one's in the collection now."). Kate's suicide, rewinding, nearly losing her again (a hand reaching out over the edge of a tall, tall building as a doll falls) ("I never liked that one. I mean, it … yeah. That one, I think everyone got."). The eclipse. Breaking into the school. The pool. Kissing Chloe. The dead birds, everywhere (a dead bird, lying on the sidewalk) ("That's even creepier now that I have context and it was creepy to begin with."). Discovering Frank and Rachel's relationship. The time jump. Chloe, quadriplegic and dying. Chloe, asking to die (a person lies prone next to an empty bed) ("Oh, Max…"). Investigating Rachel. Investigating Frank. Frank dying, twice, before Max can figure out a way to save him. The Dark Room. Rachel, buried in the ground (A doll in an open hole, surrounded by syringes) ("Fuck, Max. I don't know what to say."). Two moons in the sky. The party. Rushing back to the junkyard. Chloe being shot, Max being drugged. Victoria there; the Dark Room (she only has the photo with Kate) ("Don't, Max. I … I don't want to see, even if you did it voluntarily."). Changing time to get Jefferson arrested but causing the storm. Changing it back. The Dark Room; Victoria gone (syringes) ("…"). David rescuing her, after multiple rewinds and three deaths. David killing Jefferson. The storm (wreckage of a building, cloth hanging from a sign) ("Not earthquakes then..."). Photojumping. The nightmare (someone asleep but the background's distorted) ("I got that one. It … you really captured it."). The storm (rain and debris flying and lightning flashing) ("God. No wonder you hate them."). Chloe telling her to go back and let her die. The kiss. And finally, photojumping back to the bathroom and sobbing silently as Chloe dies alone (eleven guns for eleven shots).
Hannah looks at her. "Jesus fuck, Max," she says. "How are you even halfway functional after that?"
"Y-You believe me?"
"That's way too detailed for a delusion. And it … it makes sense. The photos that nobody understood, it makes sense when you know the context. You … you're infamously tight-lipped as well…" Hannah swallows. "I always thought you felt guilty about something and that… C'mere."
She hugs Max and Max clings to her, breathing in her familiar smell, feeling suddenly … more. As though something has been removed from her. Relief. That someone has heard her and believes her.
Finally, they separate. Max says, "I wanted to say that I get a bit of how you feel. With Kirsten and the kids. That … you know you did the right thing and that Kirsten was a hero." She looks down. "If I'd picked Chloe, the guilt … I dunno that we could've lived with it. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people would've died. But."
Hannah rubs her shoulder. "Kirsten would've hated me if the kids died. But." She sighs. "Without wanting to get into a fight, your choice feels more justifiable to me. You were talking about a whole town."
"You were talking about children. And…" She's never voiced this aloud, never been able to. "You and Kirsten were together for years. Chloe and I had five days that didn't exist." She glances at Hannah. "Do you ever wonder if Kirsten is up there, waiting for you?"
"I like to think she is. Why? D'you…"
"No," Max says. "She thinks I abandoned her. 'Cause I did. In this timeline, she never saw me again."
"Max…" Hannah shakes her head. "You said she told you to never forget her. You ever thought about getting a tattoo or something?"
Max shakes her head. "Feels tacky. Besides, tattoos were her thing."
"Yeah," Hannah says. "Kirsten hated them. That's why I never…"
They drift into silence. Max fidgets with the photo from the bathroom. If she photojumped now and saved Chloe, where would she be? Would her other self make the same decision? Or would she be with Chloe?
"Max?" Max looks up. "I just had a thought."
Despite herself, Max can't help saying, "Oh God."
"Hey!" Hannah doesn't grin but her lips do quirk. "I was just thinking about your photos and how you used them to remind yourself of Chloe. And how … I have an idea for a project that I think you might like."