The Dance of Distance

The night wore on like a slow jam stretched across time, each moment deliberate as a finger on piano keys. Matthew Knowles' voice carried across the room—that same commanding tone I'd hear in countless future meetings—as he held court near the eastern windows. Tina stood beside him, regal in midnight blue, her designer's eye catching the imperfections in others' attempts at glamour.

Rico materialized again, this time with L.A. Reid in tow. I straightened, remembering how this conversation had never happened in my original timeline.

"L.A., this is who I was telling you about. Marcus Johnson." Rico's introduction carried the weight of calculated preparation. "The one behind that 'Future Nostalgia' track that's been circulating."

Reid's handshake was firm, presidential. "Interesting production choices, young man. That reverse vocal effect in the bridge—I haven't heard anything quite like it." His eyes carried that particular gleam of a man who'd spent decades distinguishing between innovation and gimmickry.

"It's all about anticipating where the sound is heading," I replied, the words careful as winter frost. In my head, I heard the full evolution of that technique, how it would spawn a thousand imitators by 2018. But here, now, it was still novel enough to turn heads.

Through the shifting crowd, I caught another glimpse of Beyoncé. She was speaking with Pharrell, her laugh carrying across the room like scattered notes. I'd heard that same laugh in recording sessions yet to come, over late-night songwriting sessions that hadn't happened, during quiet moments that existed only in my memory's future.

A new song emerged from the quartet, and I recognized the arrangement—one of mine, from 2019, now transformed into something that could exist in 2005. The melody carried across the room:

*Yesterday's tomorrow calls

Through the mirror, through the walls

Every future's just a day

That remembers yesterday*

"Your string arrangements show surprising maturity," a voice said beside me. I turned to find Tina Knowles studying me with that penetrating gaze I'd come to know so well in another timeline. "You're younger than I expected."

"Music has its own age," I answered, channeling both my seventeen-year-old earnestness and my thirty-five-year-old wisdom. "Sometimes it finds you early."

"Hmm." Her smile carried a mother's skepticism and an artist's recognition. "Beyoncé mentioned your remix of 'Crazy in Love.' Said it made her hear her own voice differently."

The remix she mentioned wasn't supposed to exist for another three years. But in this timeline, I'd released it two months ago, stripped down and rebuilt with production techniques that walked the line between present innovation and future revelation. It had found its way to Beyoncé through channels I'd carefully orchestrated, a temporal sleight of hand that felt both dishonest and destined.

"Different perspectives can reveal new possibilities," I said, watching as Matthew Knowles began making his way toward our conversation. The weight of the flash drive in my pocket seemed to increase, heavy with unreleased productions that could reshape the next decade of music. But timing was everything—in music, in love, in destiny.

Reid was still beside us, his attention now caught by the way Tina was evaluating me. The pieces were falling into place like a perfectly produced track—each element hitting exactly when it should, creating a symphony of circumstance that would echo through years to come.

The quartet's song reached its bridge, and across the room, Beyoncé turned, her eyes meeting mine again. In both timelines, this moment had always been inevitable. The only difference was that now I understood exactly what to do with it.