Elara couldn't eat.
She sat at the kitchen table, staring at the untouched toast on her plate. Her fingers curled tightly around a warm mug of hot chocolate, but she didn't take a sip.
Across from her, her mother was already in full lecture mode.
"You are not switching schools," her mother snapped, pointing a butter knife in her direction. "You worked so hard to get into St. Claire's. That school will open doors for you, Elara. Colleges, scholarships, internships. Everything we've planned."
Elara didn't answer right away. She just nodded and forced a tight smile.
"I'm not transferring," she lied quietly.
But the truth was written all over her face. She had been thinking about transferring the moment she woke up in her teenage body.
How does she already know? Elara thought bitterly. Moms really do have a sixth sense.
Still, her decision had already been made.
She wasn't the same girl who once cared about elite grades and fancy uniforms. Not anymore. Her body might be eighteen again, but her soul had lived another life. A whole lifetime. She had written books. Lost friends. Lost her husband. She had watched Liam die slowly and bravely, never once complaining. She had buried him with her own hands.
And now… he was alive.
She remembered clearly what he told her in the hospital, just days before his death. "I was a two-time repeater," he'd said, his voice soft and full of regret. "I went to Westbridge Public. Just down the street from St. Claire's."
Westbridge.
Elara stood suddenly, ignoring her mother's sharp look. She grabbed her old flip phone from the counter, shoved it into her school bag, and left without another word.
The bus ride to Westbridge took less than ten minutes, but it felt like hours.
Her heart pounded with every stop.
When she finally reached Westbridge Public School, Elara stepped onto the sidewalk and took a deep breath. The campus was smaller than her own school nearby—St. Claire's. It was worn down. The white paint on the walls had faded to gray, rust clung to the gates, and weeds poked through cracks in the pavement. The air smelled faintly of old lockers and greasy cafeteria fries.
So this is where Liam went to school.
And somewhere among this crowd of students, he was here today.
Elara adjusted her hoodie and pushed through the sea of students just as the morning bell rang. She didn't belong here—yet. But that didn't matter. Not today.
Her eyes scanned every group of teens gathered around stairwells and benches, every open classroom door, every shadowed hallway.
And then—
She saw him.
He was leaning against a row of lockers at the far end of the hall. His head was tilted slightly, his arms crossed over his chest. A hoodie with torn sleeves clung loosely to his frame. His dark hair was messy, longer than she remembered. His posture was slouched, shoulders heavy like someone who had carried too many burdens too soon.
It was him.
Liam Reyes.
He was younger—maybe twenty now—but still tall, with broad shoulders and tired eyes. He wasn't smiling. He didn't laugh or joke like the other boys. He simply stood there, silent, distant, like he didn't quite belong anywhere.
Elara stopped breathing.
He's alive.
She had buried this man. Held his cold hand in a hospital bed. Kissed his forehead goodbye. And now, he was right in front of her. Real. Breathing. Flesh and bone.
Alive.
She took one shaky step forward.
Then another.
Her lips parted. She wanted to say his name. She wanted to shout it—to run to him, hug him, sob into his chest. But she stopped herself. He didn't know her. Not yet. Not in this lifetime.
Suddenly, a group of loud boys walked past her, laughing and nudging one another.
One of them pointed at her.
"Hey, rich girl! You lost or something?" he called, snickering.
Elara stiffened. She had forgotten—her uniform. The skirt, the polished shoes, the school crest. She still looked like she belonged to St. Claire's.
The hallway quieted slightly, curious eyes turning toward the girl who clearly didn't belong here.
And Liam?
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
His expression didn't change much. Not at first. But Elara saw the flicker of recognition, of surprise. And then something else—confusion? Curiosity? Maybe even the smallest hint of hope.
She looked at me, he thought, heart skipping a beat. The girl from St. Claire's. The one I've had a stupid crush on for months. What is she doing here?
He had noticed her, just like he said he had all those years ago.
But this time, she noticed him too.
Elara gave him one last glance—brief but soft—and turned to leave.
She couldn't stay. Not yet.
She'd enroll here soon enough. She would find a way. But for now, she just needed to know that he was here. That he was real.
That she still had time.