Elena couldn't eat.
She sat at the kitchen table, staring at the piece of toast on her plate. The bread was golden, still warm from the toaster, but she couldn't bring herself to pick it up. Her fingers curled tightly around a warm mug of hot chocolate, but she didn't take a sip. The steam curled into the air, the scent of cocoa rich and comforting, but it did nothing to calm her frantic thoughts. The smell seemed almost cruel, so soothing for a mind that would not stop churning.
Her mother was on the other side of the table, already in full lecture mode, moving about the kitchen in short, precise movements. The butter knife in her hand glinted each time she gestured.
"You are not switching schools," her mother said, pointing the knife in Elena's direction for emphasis. "You worked too hard to get into St. Claire's. That school will open doors for you, Elena. Colleges, scholarships, internships. Everything we've planned for your future."
Her mother's voice had that familiar tone to it – the one that never allowed for discussion. The same voice she would use if she were talking to the gardener about pruning the roses, or the caterer about how to set the table for a dinner party.
Elena looked down at the table, tracing a faint scratch in the wood with her fingertip. "I'm not transferring," she murmured.
Her mother shot her a long, pointed look. "Good. Because I won't have you throwing away years of hard work just because you suddenly feel like playing rebel."
"I'm not," Elena said quickly, forcing the corners of her mouth into something resembling a smile.
It was a lie, and both of them knew it.
Inside, her mind whirled like a wheel she could not stop. She had been thinking about transferring the moment she had opened her eyes in her teenage body. The thought had been so immediate it was instinctive, like something had been planted there before she had even cracked her eyelids.
How does she already know? Elena thought bitterly. Moms really do have a sixth sense.
But she had made the decision the second she realized where in time she was. She was not the same girl that had once cared about perfect grades and polished uniforms and immaculate report cards. Not anymore. Her body might be eighteen again, but her soul had lived another lifetime – another life filled with choices, mistakes, love, and unbearable loss.
She had written books. She had lost friends. She had lost her husband.
She had watched Liam die slowly, bravely, never once complaining. She had sat beside him, holding his hand until the warmth faded from his skin. She had buried him with her own hands.
And now… he was alive. She could still hear his voice from that hospital bed, rough and quiet, edged with a humor he would not let go of even at the end. "I was a two-time repeater. I went to Westbridge Public. Just down the street from St. Claire's."
Westbridge.
Her chair scraped back suddenly, the sound sharp against the tiled floor. Her mother frowned, butter knife pausing mid-air. "Where are you going? You haven't touched your food."
"I'm meeting someone," Elena said, grabbing her bag. Her voice was steady, but her pulse was not. She did not wait for permission, she did not need it anymore.
"Elena—" her mother began, but she was already halfway to the door.
She snatched her old flip phone from the counter, shoved it into her school bag, and stepped out into the cool morning air without another word.
The bus ride to Westbridge took less than ten minutes, but every second stretched on like an hour. Every bump in the road made her heart pound faster. She sat rigid in her seat, hands clenching so tightly around the strap of her bag that her knuckles turned white. She did not notice the chattering of the other passengers or the hum of the engine, her thoughts drowning everything else out.
When the bus stopped, she stepped down onto the cracked pavement and looked up. Westbridge Public School loomed before her, smaller than St. Claire's but somehow more alive in a way she could not explain. The white paint on the walls had weathered to a weary gray. Rust clung stubbornly to the front gates, and weeds poked through the cracks in the sidewalk like a silent protest. A group of boys shouted near the basketball court, their laughter sharp and unrestrained, rolling on the wind. Somewhere nearby, the faint smell of greasy cafeteria fries wafted toward her.
This was it.
This is where Liam went to school.
She walked forward, weaving between the crowds of students. Their clothes were casual, worn, and mismatched, nothing like the pristine navy-and-gold uniforms at St. Claire's. The atmosphere here was louder, rougher, but also freer. She could feel the stares, some curious, some mocking, on her polished shoes and neatly pressed skirt.
The morning bell rang, and the stream of students moved toward the main building. Elena slipped inside with them, her eyes flicking over every face, searching.
And then—
She saw him.
He leaned against a row of lockers at the far end of the hallway, one foot propped casually against the metal door behind him. A black hoodie with frayed sleeves hung loosely over his shoulders, the fabric stretched just enough to reveal the muscle beneath. His dark hair was longer than she remembered, messy, tumbling slightly into his eyes.Even in this younger version, his posture had that quiet strength she knew so well.
It was him.
Liam Reyes.
He was younger now, around twenty, she guessed, but still tall, still broad-shouldered, still radiating that calm, self-contained energy. His dark, tired eyes flicked lazily over the hallway, not really seeing anyone.
Elena froze.
He's alive.
Her throat tightened. She had buried this man. She had kissed his cold forehead. She had whispered goodbye when his chest no longer rose and fell. And now here he was, breathing, blinking, standing just a dozen steps away.
She took one step forward. Then another.
His name trembled on the edge of her tongue. She wanted to run to him, hold him, tell him everything – that she loved him, that she knew what the years ahead held, that she had come back for him. But she stopped.
He didn't know her. Not yet. Not in this lifetime.
A group of loud boys passed by, shoving each other with the careless energy of youth. One of them noticed her and smirked. "Hey, rich girl! You lost or something?"
The words were meant to sting, and they did, but not enough to turn her away. She had forgotten she was still wearing her St. Claire's uniform, still in the crisp skirt, still with the polished shoes and gold-stitched crest embroidered over her heart. She might as well have worn a sign announcing that she didn't belong here.
The noise in the hallway seemed to fade, replaced by the echo of her own heartbeat.
And then—
Liam looked up.
Their eyes met.
His expression barely changed, but there was the smallest flicker of surprise. Then something else—curiosity, maybe even recognition.
She looked at me, Liam thought, his heart giving a sudden, unexpected jolt. The girl from St. Claire's. The one I've had a stupid crush on for months. What is she doing here?
In her first life, he had told her once, years after they married, that he had noticed her back then. That he had liked her from a distance. That she had never looked his way.
But this time, she did.
She held his gaze for a long moment. It wasn't a smile, but it was softer than indifference, warmer than simple politeness.
Then, slowly, she turned away. She couldn't stay. Not yet. There were steps to take, things to plan. But she had seen him. He was here.
And she still had time.