I stood in front of the mirror, toothbrush still hanging from my mouth, foam bubbling at the corners. My reflection looked back at me — eyes half-lidded, hair a mess, a faded Superman t-shirt I hadn't worn in years.
But that wasn't what caught my attention.
It was the look in my eyes.
The sixteen-year-old version of me shouldn't have eyes like that — tired, wary, too aware of things he hadn't lived yet. And no matter how still I stood, no matter how hard I tried to pretend I belonged in this time, the mirror knew.
It always knew.
Downstairs, the house was moving like it usually did — quietly, with purpose. Mom was preparing lunch for Dad, her rhythm flawless again, no confusion like yesterday. It was almost as if the missing milk incident hadn't happened at all.
That scared me more than if it had gotten worse.
Was it just a momentary lapse? Or something deeper trying to hide?
I wanted to ask. I wanted to know.
But sometimes, the questions we carry are heavier than the answers we fear.
I sat with my brother later that afternoon.
He was sprawled on the floor, crayons scattered around him, drawing something vaguely resembling a spaceship. He didn't talk much, not unless he was excited about something. But today, he just kept glancing at me. Like he knew something was different about me, even if he couldn't explain it.
"What's up?" I asked.
He shrugged. "You're being weird."
I laughed. "I've always been weird."
"Not like this. You talk like a grown-up now. You don't yell anymore."
I blinked. "Did I used to yell?"
He nodded, still coloring. "A lot."
I leaned back. That stung more than I expected. I remembered our bond as warm, playful. But apparently, the younger me wasn't the brother I thought I had been.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He looked up. "For what?"
"For… yelling. For not being a better brother."
He tilted his head. "You're being a good one now."
Later that night, I found my old phone in the drawer.
It still worked. The screen was scratched, the messages filled with school forwards and jokes that had long gone out of style. But tucked away was a message from someone I hadn't seen or thought about in years.
Sia.
A name I hadn't spoken since before the collapse.
A friend I should've stayed close to.
And in that message, just one line:
"If anything ever goes wrong… don't shut down. Don't disappear."
I stared at it until the screen dimmed.
And I knew.
This version of the past wasn't just about saving people.
It was about owning who I used to be — and being brave enough to change it.
Even when the mirror refused to show it.