Bloom, Carved on the Desk of Time

"A substitute teacher?" Carl Parker set down his menu, his gaze instantly turning cold. "I thought you were at least tenured."

I sat rigidly in the leather chair of this upscale restaurant, feeling the strange looks from other diners around us. This was already the third time today someone had looked at me that way.

"I graduated with an art degree, and I'm currently at Jefferson High..."

"Art?" Carl let out an undisguised sneer. "That's even more of a dead end. To be honest, Riley, I've got good prospects. I can still look around. At your age, with such an unstable job..."

His words cut through me like knives. Thirty-one years old—tomorrow would be my 31st birthday. A 31-year-old woman being openly scorned by her blind date.

"Check, please!" I stood up, my voice trembling.

Carl looked momentarily stunned, then shrugged. "Well, since you insist, thanks."

He didn't even have an ounce of remorse!

I fumbled for my credit card with shaking hands, calculating that this meal would cost me three days' wages. But right now, I just wanted to escape this place, escape this man's contemptuous gaze.

The moment I walked out of the restaurant, my phone started buzzing frantically.

"Riley! What the hell are you doing?" My mother's voice exploded through the speaker. "Carl said you had quite the attitude and just walked out? Do you have any idea how hard it was to arrange this date?"

"Mom..."

"Don't 'Mom' me! You're turning 31 tomorrow—can't you be realistic? Do you think you're still an 18-year-old girl? Look at yourself now, a substitute teacher without even a permanent job!"

Every word hit me like stones. I leaned against the cold lamppost, tears streaming down uncontrollably.

"Mom, I..."

"'I' what? Your father was right—we never should have let you study art. Look where it got you! Thirty-one and we're still worrying about you! Do you know how embarrassing this is for me in front of the relatives?"

Beep—the call ended.

I stood alone on the empty street, watching people pass by, each with their own direction. Only I remained, like a lost soul abandoned by the world.

Maybe Uncle Dave was right—I really was worthless...

The thought slithered into my heart like a poisonous snake. Fourteen years later, that man's words still echoed in my mind: "You're just unwanted baggage. Who else would care about you besides me?"

Deep into the night, I drove my beat-up used car slowly toward Jefferson High. I needed to prepare lesson plans for tomorrow's substitute work. But more importantly, I didn't want to return to that empty apartment, didn't want to spend this pathetic last night of being 30 alone.

The campus was eerily quiet, moonlight filtering through clouds onto the school building, casting strange shadows. I used my key to open the art building door, and the familiar scent of paint immediately filled my nostrils.

This place used to be my only sanctuary.

"Still here at 31—what a life achievement," I muttered bitterly to myself, my feet unconsciously heading toward that classroom from years past.

The moment I pushed open the door, memories flooded back like a tidal wave. My 17-year-old self, always sitting in the corner, quietly drawing little flowers on the desk. And he...

"Beautiful bloom, little flower..."

That voice, that warm voice, seemed to still echo in my ears.

I walked stiffly toward my old seat. That worn desk was still there, its surface marked by the passage of time. I reached out with trembling hands, gently stroking the surface, as if I could still feel the warmth of being 17.

"If only I had never met you..." I whispered painfully. "Then you wouldn't have..."

Tears dripped onto the desk surface. I quickly wiped them with my sleeve. Just then, my fingers touched something—a line of faded carving.

I pulled out my phone, turned on the flashlight, and leaned closer to the desk.

The moment I saw those words clearly, the entire world stopped.

"Bloom, you're beautiful. I wish you knew that. -K"

My heart raced, blood flowing backward. Only he called me Bloom. Only Kelvin Thompson called me that.

"Impossible..." I whispered with a trembling voice. "You've been dead for 14 years..."

Memories flashed back like a movie: that sunny boy who always smiled at me; that terrible fire where he rushed into the flames to save me and never came back out...

Tears blurred my vision as I tremblingly pulled out a pen from my bag. I didn't know why I was doing this—just instinctively wanting to respond to those carved words.

"Kelvin... if time could turn back, I wouldn't have let you sacrifice yourself for me..."

I had just finished writing when I was about to put away my pen, and suddenly new text appeared on the desk!

Those words seemed to be written by an invisible hand, appearing stroke by stroke before my eyes:

"Who are you? Why can you see my words? This is March 14th, 2012, and I'm in art class."

My pen clattered to the floor. I stared wide-eyed, unable to believe what I was seeing.

"This is impossible!" I cried out, my voice echoing in the empty classroom.

But the writing on the desk was crystal clear—that familiar handwriting, that familiar tone...

He was still alive... in that timeline, he was still alive!

This realization struck me like lightning. My heart pounded wildly, my fingers trembling so much I could barely hold the pen.

If this was real, if I could truly communicate with Kelvin from 2012...

If I could prevent that tragedy...

If I could save him...

I took a deep breath and picked up the pen with shaking hands. Whether this was a miracle or a hallucination, I had to seize this chance.

"I am... I'm someone from the year 2026. Kelvin, I know this sounds crazy, but you have to believe me..."

I stopped writing, looking at my own words. What should I tell him next? Should I tell him that 14 years from now, I'm still blaming myself for his death? Should I tell him about the fire that would take his life?

Or... should I tell him that I love him?

New text appeared on the desk again, interrupting my thoughts:

"2026? Are you kidding me? What's the future like? And... how do you know my name?"

I stared at those words, tears welling up again. That tone, that curious manner—it was exactly like 17-year-old Kelvin. That boy who was always full of life, curious about everything.

I had to save him.

No matter the cost.