The chandeliers of the Roosevelt Hotel ballroom cast their amber glow across a sea of black suits and evening gowns, each crystal pendant catching and fracturing the light like suspended stars. I adjusted my tie—a gesture that belonged more to my future self than my seventeen-year-old body—and watched Rico navigate through the crowd with the ease of a casino dealer working his favorite table.
"Marcus, my man," he said, clapping my shoulder with the precise force that suggested both familiarity and status. "Remember what I told you. Tonight isn't about making moves. It's about being seen." He gestured toward the industry titans who dotted the room like chess pieces. "Let them wonder about the kid from the Bronx who's got Quincy Jones requesting his demos."
I nodded, suppressing the smile that threatened to reveal too much. In my original timeline, I'd spent a decade trying to get into rooms like this. Now here I stood, barely old enough to drive, watching my prepared future unfold with the precision of a orchestral arrangement. The string quartet in the corner played a tasteful rendition of "Crazy in Love," and my heart performed its familiar somersault.
Through the crowd, I caught fragments of conversation about streaming technology—still years away—and ringtone revenues. A waiter passed with champagne I couldn't legally drink, though my mind held memories of countless such glasses. The air was thick with Gatsby-esque ambition, perfume, and the particular desperation of artists trying to appear unaffected by the presence of greatness.
I made my way to the bar, ordering a club soda with lime, when the energy in the room shifted like a modulation from major to minor. The crowd parted with practiced subtlety, and there she was—Beyoncé Knowles, resplendent in gold, her presence commanding attention without demanding it. In my past future, we'd met at a studio session in 2012, but now, in 2005, she was already the gravitational center of any room she entered.
Our eyes met across the space, and I felt the weight of my future memories press against the present moment. She smiled—that same smile that would one day grace album covers and magazine spreads—and I heard the opening bars of a song I hadn't written yet echo in my mind:
*Time is a circle drawn in sand
Destiny's a second chance
Every ending's where we start
Every finish breaks apart*
The lyrics belonged to a duet we'd record in 2015—or would have, in another life. Now they were just ghost notes in my head, a melody searching for its moment. Rico appeared at my elbow, misreading my stillness for nervousness.
"Remember, Marcus, you belong here," he whispered, not knowing how true those words were. "Your 'Future Nostalgia' track is making waves. People are talking."
I watched as she moved through the crowd with elegant purpose, receiving congratulations for her latest album's success. In my pocket, I felt the weight of a flash drive containing productions that wouldn't exist for years—sounds that could reshape the industry. But tonight wasn't about that. Tonight was about maintaining the delicate choreography of fate and free will, about being exactly where I was always meant to be, even if I'd arrived by an entirely different path.
The quartet transitioned to "Autumn in New York," and I took a slow sip of my club soda, ice clinking against crystal like time itself keeping rhythm. In both timelines, this moment—this night—would change everything. The only difference was that now I knew exactly why.