Van sat on the edge of Chloe's bed, the mattress dipping under him like it was made for someone lighter. The room smelled of vanilla candle and something synthetic, like the air freshener in his mom's minivan but sharper, more insistent. Outside, the city hummed—drones delivering takeout, or whatever they did now. He'd seen one earlier, a white buzzing thing dropping a bag at the neighbor's door. No tip required, Chloe had said, laughing like it was normal. In 2000, you'd throw a quarter at the pizza guy and call it even.

She was cross-legged on the floor, scrolling her phone, the screen's glow painting her face blue. Thumbs flying, silent except for the occasional huff. Van watched her, the way her hair fell across one cheek, how she bit her lip when something amused her. He wanted to ask what it was—a meme? A story about some influencer he'd never heard of?—but the words stuck. What if she looked up, saw right through him? *Dude, you're from the Stone Age,* he'd think, and laugh it off. But inside, it gnawed.

The quiet stretched. Not the good kind, like waiting for Limp Bizkit to drop the beat at the end of "Nookie." This was the kind where silence meant you were supposed to say something profound, or at least relatable. Therapy-speak, maybe. Chloe did that sometimes: *How are you feeling?* Like feelings were apps you could update. Back home, you'd just crack a Mountain Dew and talk shit about school. No dissection.

He picked at a thread on his jeans—Levi's, faded just right, the kind you could still get at the mall without selling a kidney online. "Remember Blockbuster?" he said finally, voice low. "Friday nights, arguing over which VHS to rent. *Dude, Where's My Car?* or *American Pie*."

Chloe glanced up, eyebrows knitting. She set her phone down, screen still lit with whatever TikTok void she'd been in. "Blockbuster? Like, the streaming service?" A pause, her eyes searching his face. "Wait, you mean the old video store? My mom took me once before it closed. Smelled like popcorn and mildew."

Van nodded, too quick. *Streaming service?* His stomach twisted. Blockbuster was a temple—neon lights, the rewind machine beeping like victory. Now it was ghosts in some algorithm. "Yeah," he said. "Mildew and all. You'd walk the aisles forever. Feel the plastic case, read the back like it was scripture."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Misunderstanding already, the gap widening. She thought he was nostalgic for childhood, some emo phase. Not that he'd crowd-surfed into the future and couldn't log back in. He imagined telling her: *Bro, I was at the Limp Bizkit show, Fred Durst screaming 'Break Stuff,' and poof—here. Twenty-six years gone. Pagers to this.* She'd pat his hand, suggest an app for time management. Or worse, believe him and freak.

Another silence. Chloe shifted, pulling her knees up. Her shirt rode up a little, showing a strip of skin, and Van looked away, heat crawling up his neck. He liked her—too much, maybe. The way she'd lent him her charger without asking why his phone was "broken" (no SIM, no apps, just a Nokia brick he'd scavenged from a thrift store). Last week, at the coffee shop, she'd ordered oat milk lattes for them both. "It's better for you," she'd said. He'd sipped it, pretending, while thinking of Hershey's syrup in whole milk. Simple. Real.

But she was 2026: pronouns in bios, ghosting as a love language, hustling side gigs. He wanted to pull her close, bury his face in her hair, whisper about AIM chats that lasted till 3 a.m., the door-open sound like a friend's knock. Instead, he stayed still, the bed a continent between them.

"You okay?" she asked, voice soft. Not probing, just there.

Van shrugged. "Whatever." His shield, automatic. Inside: *No. I miss pagers beeping 143. Human voices on landlines, not these texts that die unread. You, but in my world.* He almost reached for her hand. Didn't.

She stood, stretched. "Wanna watch something? Netflix has this new—"

"Nah," he cut in, standing too. Close now, her vanilla scent mixing with his confusion. "I'm good."

Their eyes met, held. She tilted her head, like she saw the fracture but wouldn't name it. He wanted to kiss her, bridge the years. Feared it'd shatter everything. The quiet thickened, pregnant with unsaid wants. She turned toward the kitchen; he followed, a step behind, into the alien hum of her fridge—smart, beeping reminders. 2000 felt further away than ever.

(Word count: 712)