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She grinned, leaning against the counter with her own cup of tea—earl gray, no milk, just how I'd made it for her a hundred times before. "That's because I pay attention," she said, like it was nothing, like she hadn't spent countless mornings watching me from the kitchen table, memorizing the way I moved through the ritual of it.
I didn't tell her that I'd noticed.
She announced that she was staying the whole day, and I didn't argue. I pushed away the lingering thought—the one that whispered She was gone, wasn't she?—because the alternative was too unbearable.
We spent hours sprawled across the living room floor, playing board games and cards, laughing until our sides hurt. At one point, she made some ridiculous joke—something so stupid it shouldn't have been funny—but we couldn't stop. We laughed until tears streamed down our faces, until we were gasping for breath, clutching our stomachs. It was the kind of laughter that felt like coming up for air after being underwater too long.
When we finally calmed down, we went out for lunch, walking side by side down the familiar streets, the sun warm on our shoulders. We sat in our favorite booth at the little Mexican place, splitting a chicken cheese quesadilla the size of a pizza. Half of it still sat between us when we gave up, full and content, wrapping the rest to take home.
Back at my house, we collapsed onto the couch, full and drowsy. She nudged her shoulder against mine, her voice quiet. "Next year—tenth grade. Think it'll be any different?"
I shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe it'll be exactly the same."
She smiled, small but real. "Same wouldn't be so bad."
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For the first time in weeks, I believed her.
She left for home and I made my way to the bed, exhausted from the fun but long day. I lay there as I slowly drift to sleep.
The knocking was loud. Insistent. A sharp rap-rap-rap that sliced through the quiet of the early morning, jolting me awake. My heart hammered against my ribs before I even fully registered what was happening.
Again.
I knew before I even opened the door. The dread coiled in my stomach like a snake, heavy and suffocating. My bare feet dragged across the cold hardwood floor as I forced myself forward, each step feeling like I was wading through wet cement. When I turned the knob and pulled the door open, the sight was exactly what I feared—the same police officer from before, his face pale, eyes red-rimmed, already sinking to his knees as if the weight of his words was too much for him to bear standing.
And then—the same news. Again.
My legs gave out. I stumbled back to the couch, collapsing onto the cushions, my hands trembling in my lap. The walls of the house seemed to press in, the air thick with something I couldn't name—grief, confusion, a sickening sense of déjà vu.
What is happening to me?
The question looped in my mind, relentless. Hadn't I already lived this? Hadn't I already felt this crushing weight, this unbearable tightness in my chest?
Why am I seeing this again? Why can't I just be happy and live my life?
I must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming through the curtains, and an hour had slipped away. My head throbbed, my eyelids gritty with exhaustion. I dragged myself to the kitchen, the mechanical motions of making coffee the only thing grounding me—pour the water, scoop the grounds, press start. The bitter scent filled the room, but it didn't chase away the numbness.
By midday, Jacob, Sara, Topher, Alyssa, and Lilith showed up at my door. Their voices were too loud, their smiles too forced, but I didn't have the energy to call them out on it. We crowded into the living room, a tangled mess of limbs and hushed conversations, none of us daring to say what we were all thinking.
Lilith sat curled up in the armchair, her fingers wrapped tightly around a mug of tea. She looked more exhausted than usual, dark circles under her eyes, her shoulders slumped like she was carrying the weight of the world. I didn't blame her. At seventeen, she'd already lived through more than most people twice her age—losing both parents in a car crash at
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fifteen, getting shoved into foster care, fighting to take custody of her little sister the second she could. Now she balanced school, a part-time job, and raising a kid, all while being held back a year because grief had stolen her focus when she needed it most.
I wanted to say something—to tell her how strong she was, how much I admired her—but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I just passed her the plate of cookies Sara had brought, and she gave me a small, tired smile in return.
The next time I woke up, it was the shrill ringing of my phone. The screen lit up with Elizabeth's name, the time glaring back at me: 6:00 AM. September 4th. Thursday.
My stomach dropped.
No. No, no, no.
I fumbled for the phone, my voice hoarse as I answered. "Hello?"
"Hey! You up?" Elizabeth's voice was bright, cheerful. Like nothing was wrong. Like this wasn't the same exact conversation we'd already had.
"Yeah," I muttered, squeezing my eyes shut. Why am I reliving this day? Maybe it was a dream. I hope it was just a dream.
But deep down, I knew it wasn't.
I went through the motions—shower, clothes, makeup—each action feeling hollow, like I was watching myself from outside my body. The high school loomed ahead of me when I arrived, its three stories of weathered red brick and chipped grey rooftop shingles as familiar as my own reflection. And there, like always, was Elizabeth, leaning against the entrance, her backpack slung over one shoulder, grinning when she spotted me.
"Took you long enough," she teased, falling into step beside me.
I forced a smile. "Yeah, yeah."
We had every class together, something I'd always found comforting. Today, though, it just made the déjà vu worse.
First period was Mr. Lawson's room, and as we stepped inside, I immediately noticed the changes—the desks, once arranged in clusters, were now lined up in long rows, each table forty-two inches long and twenty-four inches wide, stretching toward the front of the room. Two chairs sat side by side at each one.
"Okay, listen up," Mr. Lawson called, clapping his hands together. "Today, you pick your own seats. Sit where you want your assigned seat to be, and it doesn't matter who you sit with."
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Elizabeth nudged me, her eyes scanning the room. "Back left?" she whispered.
I nodded. "Back left."
We claimed the table near the window, Elizabeth tucking herself against the glass while I took the seat beside her. The hum of voices grew as the rest of the class filed in, laughter and shuffling backpacks filling the space, but all I could focus on was the nagging thought in the back of my mind:
This has already happened.
And I had no idea how to stop it.