After a long and careful deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing as dangerous in or Outside the universe as jaysome. This is not the same as Jay, of course, though many would think so. I have seen what Jay did at twelve, everything I have done since to fix such things. Fourteen is a far different age than twelve, for so many reasons. But I have a trick I will lose soon (all tricks go away in the end, which is how you know they are tricks.)
I reach back and memories flood into me. Some distance. Some remove, or I would drown in their joy.
Jay, at ten. Shy, hiding behind a magician he named Honcho to avoid using a lisp. Â Impossible even then. Casually terrifying the very Powers that run the universe. Shaping stars into words because no one told him he couldnât. It wasnât even forbidden; no power like he was should have been able to enter the universe. Â But he did, all careful and hiding but brave for his friends. Sacrificing so much, never understanding that it was a sacrifice at all.
And eleven. Oh, so eleven. Pure jaysome and wonder and joy. The universe bends to the need for adventures. The fae scramble to try and hide him, and fail so gloriously for all their power. In the end, they are but magic and Jay so much more than they can ever be.
He walks into the future to see himself, when he is older than I am. Sees me, at fifteen. Sees a lack of jaysome.
He visits even me, sometimes. Bringing jaysome. Not an offering. Not a requirement. He is, and so I am in response.
I am to old and have seen and done too much for jaysome. I know this. Jay wonât know it. His existence at eleven refutes Jayseltosche. He is a weapon aimed at his own future, primed with pure joy and guarded by an innocence so deep that he can alter time and space and repair it, never realizing how close every jaunt he takes comes to unmaking all things.
I am stronger now than I was at eleven. Far more clever than I could have been at twelve. The future stretches before me, but I â am not jaysome, for all the times Jay visits me. Says hi, offers a hug. There are rules about time and touching your own body; they donât work, because it would not be jaysome if the universe broke.
I can do things at fourteen I couldnât dream of being at eleven. But at eleven, at the height of jaysome, I could do so much in my innocence that I would never dare attempt now.
I fear I have grown timid.
I do not know how to fix this.
I canât go back. That â hurts. I am not brave enough for such hurts. Remembering is hard enough.
I remember. I try to find the innocence that once defined me.
