Chapter 5: Lines We Can’t Cross

Nathan threw himself into his studies. His diary entries got neater, more focused. He said his parents thought he’d been possessed—his mother joked about it—and his teachers were suddenly nicer. "Mr. Henderson actually smiled at me. I thought he was having a stroke."

Then, out of nowhere: "Rachel, we’ve known each other so long, but I still don’t know what you look like."

"What else would I look like? Two eyes, a nose, a mouth," I replied, dodging the question. "Why do you want to know?"

"Just wish I could hear your voice or see your face. I bet you have brown hair. Most people do."

"Think of me as a pen pal," I wrote, trying to laugh it off. But I was curious too—imagining Nathan with slicked-back hair and a crooked smile, the style back then. But we were separated by more than a diary—a whole century stretched between us.

To lift his mood, I drew a quick self-portrait—just a rough sketch from my years of classroom poster-making. A bob haircut, a smile that looked more like a grimace.

Nathan’s reply was instant: "Pretty."

A pause, then: "Very pretty. You have kind eyes."

The next day, my sketch was gone—cut out, a neat round hole left behind. My stomach twisted as I traced the edges. Was he trying to keep a piece of me?

I asked what happened. After a few false starts, Nathan finally wrote: "I spilled coffee on it at breakfast, so I cut that piece out. Sorry. It was ruined."

The edges were way too neat for a coffee spill. But I let it go.