The mini-fridge hums. Not a pleasant sound - more like a dial-up modem having a seizure. Van stares at the ceiling, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Chloe's contact.
Van whispers to himself: Just text her. It is not rocket science. People text. It is 2026. Texting has been invented.
He sets the phone down. Picks it up. Sets it down again.
Van: She remembered though. Out of everything I said - the time travel stuff she probably thinks is a bit, the Limp Bizkit rant, all of it - she remembered the blog thing.
He grabs his notebook - actual paper, spiral-bound - and starts writing.
Van: Dear Chloe, you are the only person in this entire garbage timeline who does not make me want to scream into the void. P.S. That sounded less creepy in my head.
He rips out the page, crumples it.
Van: I am gonna die alone in a Super 8. They are gonna find my body surrounded by Mountain Dew cans and outdated cultural references.
Phone buzzes. He nearly drops it. Screen shows: Chloe - still up?
Van's eyes go wide. He types, deletes, types again.
Van: Play it cool. Be normal. What did normal people text in 2026? Emoji? Bitmojis? What the hell is a Bitmoji?
He types one word: yeah. Hits send. Immediately regrets it.
Van: Yeah? YEAH? Three years of English class and I went with yeah?
Phone buzzes again. Screen: Chloe - blog's good. you're funny.
Van stares at the screen. A smile breaks across his face - the first genuine smile since he got here.
Van: She thinks I am funny.
He hugs his pillow. Just for a second. Then catches himself.
Van: I am a 26-year-old time refugee acting like a middle schooler. Pathetic.
But he is still smiling.