At Westgrove High, there were three names that echoed through the halls louder than any school bell: Nate, Leo, and Eli. Not because they were troublemakers or class clowns—but because they were different.
Smart different. Weird different.
The kind of different that made teachers shake their heads in amazement and classmates either admire or avoid them. Some said they were "too serious." Others called them "mad geniuses." But everyone knew—when these three stuck their heads together, something was about to happen.
Nathaniel Quinn, nicknamed Hawking by the science club, was the quiet one with the sharp eyes and the mind full of stars. He always seemed to be thinking two conversations ahead. He wasn't the fastest runner or the loudest kid, but give him a physics equation or a cosmic theory and he lit up. His ideas made even the teachers pause mid-lesson.
Leo Santino Valez, better known as Vinci, was hands-on brilliance. Sketching in notebooks during math, building weird machines from leftover parts in the robotics lab. He painted, sculpted, even carved a perfect bust of the principal out of soap once—and it actually looked better than the real guy. Nobody forgot that.
And then there was Elias Grant, called Einstein by anyone who ever saw him demolish a math problem while balancing a sandwich in one hand. Eli was confident, sharp, and funny. He could turn chaos into clarity with a few words and a scribble on the whiteboard.
They weren't just classmates. They were best friends. Three corners of one triangle.
During breaks, while others played ball or scrolled on their phones, the trio sat under the big baobab tree near the science block—talking about black holes, alternate dimensions, why time might be an illusion, or why toast always lands butter-side down. They were nerds—but the cool kind. Even seniors stopped to eavesdrop sometimes.
Then came one hot Wednesday afternoon, after a chemistry test they all aced without breaking a sweat. The three of them gathered under their usual tree, heat dancing in the air.
"I'm bored," Leo said, tossing a pebble toward an ant trail. "We keep talking about space and the universe. Why not do something real?"
"Real, like what?" Eli asked, leaning back and stretching. "Build a rocket? Hack into NASA? Steal the moon?"
Nate smiled. "No. I mean… what if we tried to mess with time?"
Eli blinked. "You mean like… time travel?"
Leo sat up, his curiosity flaring. "Now that's a conversation."
Nate nodded slowly. "We always talk about space. But time—it's the fourth dimension. I've been reading about timelines. Maybe… just maybe… we could create one."
Eli raised an eyebrow. "Create a timeline? As in trick time itself? That's—wow. You sure your brain isn't overheating?"
"I'm serious," Nate said. "What if time isn't just something we move through… but something we can shape?"
Leo grinned. "Like a sculpture? I could design a beautiful timeline—curves, gears, golden lines of memory."
Nate chuckled. "It's not about art this time, Vinci. It's about building something that holds a moment. Locks it in."
Eli leaned forward, growing more intrigued. "But if we mess with time… we're messing with everything. Cause and effect. Reality. That's not just physics—that's bending the universe."
Nate's voice dropped a bit. "But what if we found a loophole? Something the universe wouldn't notice?"
The three went quiet. It wasn't a joke anymore.
"I'd need tools," Leo said, staring into the sky. "Sketches, wires, some kind of stabilizer…"
"I'd need equations," Eli added. "To calculate when and where we land."
"And I'd need logic," Nate said. "To understand how different timelines could overlap without ripping us apart."
The school bell rang, but none of them moved.
"Guys," Leo said finally, "what if we actually try this?"
Nate looked at them both, eyes twinkling. "Then we start by asking the right question."
Eli tilted his head. "Which is?"
Nate leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was whispering to the stars:
"What if we could build a timeline?"