I watched her go, half-convinced this was some kind of trick. That she’d turn around halfway and come back with more theories about destiny and cosmic connections.
But she didn’t.
She just walked straight to the doors, gave me a little wave and another brilliant smile, and skipped—actuallyskipped—out of the conference room.
The doors closed behind her with a soft click.
Silence.
Two hundred people stared at me.
I stared back.
The moderator cleared her throat. “Dr. Darcy? Would you like to... continue?”
Would I like to continue?
Would Iliketo continue?
I’d just been interrupted mid-presentation by a woman who thought we were soulmates because she’d bumped into me in a casino lobby and felt “cosmic energy.” A woman who’d walked into a medical conference and started rambling about tarot cards and the universe experiencing itself through brains.
And now I was supposed to just... continue talking about minimally invasive surgical techniques like nothing had happened.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Yes. Let’s continue.”
I clicked to the next slide, my hand only shaking slightly.
“As I was saying,” I continued, my voice steadier now, “recent advances in imaging technology allow us to map neural pathways with unprecedented precision...”
I made it through the rest of the presentation on autopilot. My mouth moved. Words came out. Slides advanced. I answeredquestions during the Q&A session with what I hoped was coherence.
But the entire time, a small part of my brain—the part that wasn’t focused on neural pathways and surgical techniques—was screaming one continuous thought:
What the hell just happened?
The presentation ended at 4:47 PM.
I’d gone thirteen minutes over my allotted time, probably because I’d lost five minutes to the interruption and tried to make up for it by talking faster during the second half.
People applauded. The moderator thanked me. Several attendees came up to ask follow-up questions about specific techniques I’d mentioned.
I answered them all with the mechanical precision of someone who’d had this conversation a hundred times before, while internally I was still processing the fact that a complete stranger had walked into my presentation and declared us cosmically connected.
By the time I escaped the conference room, it was after five.
I needed my bag. I needed to check in. I needed to find my room, take a shower, and pretend this day had never happened.
I headed straight for the front desk.
The same clerk from earlier was still there, which I took as a good sign. At least she’d know about my bag situation.
“Hi,” I said, trying to sound pleasant despite the fact that I’d just lived through the most chaotic three hours of my professional life. “I’m Dr. Julien Darcy. I left my bag here earlier before my presentation. I’d like to collect it now.”
She typed something into her computer. Frowned.
My stomach dropped.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Darcy,” she drawled. “But I don’t see any record of your bag being checked with us.”
