I was nothing special.

A shut-in. A chubby, ordinary girl who blended into the background like a shadow. Easy to ignore. Easier to mock.

The world never ran out of ways to remind me I didn’t belong. Cruel jokes in hallways. Laughter that followed me home. Words sharper than blades, carving deeper than bruises ever could. 

Bit by bit, I shrank into myself until there was nothing left but silence and the weight of my own loneliness.

That night, I decided I’d had enough.

The chair creaked under me. The rope swayed above. My room was still, suffocating, as if the world didn’t care whether I breathed or not. And maybe it didn’t.

Then—music.

It came from the neighbor’s stereo, muffled through the thin walls. A single voice cutting into the darkness.

A voice that shouldn’t have reached me, but did.

Strong. Raw. Alive.

It wrapped around me like a hand pulling me back from the edge. The lyrics told me not to hide my light. That even if it flickered, it still burned.

I gasped, stumbling from the chair, clutching my chest as though those words had physically struck me. Tears blurred my vision, but for the first time in forever, they weren’t from pain—they were from something I thought I’d lost.

Hope.

That voice saved me.

His voice.

Eric. The lead singer of AUREA—the boyband that would one day become gods in the music world. To me, he wasn’t just an idol. He was my lifeline.

And then . . . years later, when he died, the world mourned. I mourned. The one who saved me, the reason of my life, was gone, ripped from life far too soon.

I thought it was over.

But fate had other plans.

One desperate wish, one shattered night, and when I opened my eyes—I was ten years in the past. Before the world knew AUREA. Before Eric was swallowed by fame. 

Before his voice was silenced forever.

I’m just Emy—ordinary, clumsy, and invisible to most. 

But this time . . . it’s my turn.

Eric saved me once.

Now, I’ll save him.

No matter what it takes.

It took a few hours for reality to sink in, and another few hours for me to just . . . stare at my reflection in the mirror.


Still the same short, chubby girl I thought I had left behind in old photos and bitter memories. The universe really said, "Congratulations, here's your trauma in HD."


I leaned closer, squinting at my face. The baby fat was still there, round and stubborn, clinging like it paid rent.


My cheeks were basically marshmallows. My stomach? A certified storage unit. And my thighs—dear god, my thighs—were practically auditioning to be tree trunks.


And then it hit me like a truck: PCOS. Oh yes. My lovely hormonal imbalance was still tagging along. Guess what doesn't get magically erased when you go back in time?


Yup. The syndrome that made me gain weight no matter how many rice meals I skipped or how many self-help YouTube workout videos I pretended to follow.


I poked at my reflection like it might poke back. "Wow. Out of all the versions of me you could've sent, time travel gods . . . you chose this one? Really? No hot, glow-up Emy? No model-material future me? Just sad potato me with a uterus that's basically on strike?"


My reflection didn't answer, which was rude, so I made a face at it instead.


For a moment, panic bubbled up. I was back at square one—bullied, insecure, stuffed into my chunky body with no escape.


The version of me who had planned to end it all just hours ago. That reality clung to me like a cold, wet blanket.


But then another thought crashed through the spiral:


My eyes widened, my hand gripping the sink like it could anchor me in this madness. Ten. Freaking. Years.


That meant AUREA was still climbing, Eric was still out there struggling, and the storm that would one day break him hadn't arrived yet. This was my chance.


And then, out of absolutely nowhere, I started laughing. Not the delicate, graceful kind of laugh movie heroines do. No.


This was the half-crazy, ugly snort-laugh of someone who just realized their second shot at life came with acne, an uneven haircut, and jeans that fit like medieval torture devices.


"Perfect," I wheezed. "Just perfect. Time travel, depression, and hormonal sabotage. What a combo pack."


But even as I laughed until my stomach hurt, something else stirred beneath the chaos. Hope.


That weird, fragile hope that maybe this was exactly how it was supposed to be. Because maybe, just maybe, I didn't need a glow-up or a perfect body. Maybe all I needed was my brain, my stubborn obsession with AUERA, and a second chance.


And I swore to the reflection staring back at me with marshmallow cheeks and tired eyes—"I'm going to save you, Eric. Even if it kills me . . . again."


Chapter 3 - The Girl in the Glass