Nothing impressive here. Just all the romantic corniness that dominates the mind of the teenage girl.  When I first started writing this story, I was sixteen. It was called, I kid you not (the pages don't lie): Lost in Love. Some things will be familiar. Others will be different. Devon was always Devon, for example. It was originally written in first person, in an epistolary style. The basics of the story was the same.  Names are mostly the same.
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Mind you this isn't all of it, just the first handwritten 60-something pages. Should be mostly legible.

The past is always the past. It’s not some window we look into to glimpse the lives that had come before us. It's a set time and place with set ideals and practices. When I took this task, I had thought all of it through. The how, and the when, and the what. I had a game plan—find the renegade and save the future. The Agency had checkpoints—to make sure we never become CDPs—chronologically displaced persons. But there are just things you cannot see coming. And when my watch broke during a jump, I was suddenly a black woman trapped in America of 1800s.  
 -- to be continued