Chapter Two — A Different Morning
"Nasir! Get up before you're late for school!"
My mom's voice cut through the air, the same way it had every morning for sixteen years. But this time I wasn't under the blanket, groaning, pretending I couldn't hear her. I was already in the kitchen, dressed, frying eggs in the old pan that leaned sideways no matter how you set it on the burner.
The smell of butter and onions filled the small apartment. I cracked another egg with steady hands, flipped it, and slid it next to the grits. The bread in the toaster popped, cheap white slices we bought from the corner store, but golden all the same.
I heard the shuffle of her slippers before I saw her. My mom stepped into the doorway, adjusting her headscarf, ready to scold me awake. But when she saw me standing there in my school clothes, spatula in hand, steam curling up behind me, she froze.
For a second her mouth opened, then closed again. She blinked like she wasn't sure if she was still dreaming.
"Baby… what are you doing?" she asked softly.
I turned, smiled, and shrugged. "Making breakfast. Thought I'd surprise y'all."
Her eyes watered, just a little. Then she laughed, covering her mouth. "Lord have mercy, this boy done lost his mind."
But she was smiling. A real smile. I hadn't seen her smile that wide in years.
"Go wake Dad," I said. "Food's almost ready."
She stared a moment longer before shuffling back down the hall. I finished plating the eggs and grits, buttered the toast, and even poured three cups of juice into the old cloudy glasses. It wasn't much — but it was ours.
---
My father came in a few minutes later, moving slow. He was only forty-five, but the years weighed heavy on him. The disability check barely stretched far enough, and the limp in his step told a story of pain he never liked to tell. He lowered himself into the chair with a grunt, eyeing the table like it might be a trick.
"You cook this?" he asked, his deep voice half suspicious, half surprised.
I nodded, setting his plate in front of him. "Yeah. Hope it ain't too salty."
He looked at me long and hard, then at Mom, then back at me. "Hm." That was all he said before picking up his fork.
We sat together — me, Mom, Dad — in that little kitchen with its peeling wallpaper and buzzing fridge. For the first time in forever, the table felt full. We weren't eating cereal out of mismatched bowls. We weren't rushing out the door. We were eating like a family.
---
After a few bites, Mom set her fork down and leaned forward, her voice curious. "So tell me, baby. What's gotten into you? Up early, dressed, cooking breakfast? You feeling alright?"
I chewed slowly, then put my fork down too. "I had a dream," I said carefully.
Mom raised her eyebrows. Dad grunted, not looking up from his plate.
"A deep dream," I continued. "One that made me realize… I need to do more around here. Help out. Not just lay around letting y'all do everything."
Mom blinked, her lips parting. I could tell she wanted to be happy, but she also wasn't sure what to make of it.
"You're sixteen," she said gently. "All we want is for you to focus on school. That's your job. Don't be worrying yourself about us."
"School is easy," I said without hesitation. "I can handle that. But I gotta do more. I'm the only child. I should be helping you and Dad however I can."
Dad finally looked up then, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. His dark eyes studied me, hard and skeptical.
"You sound grown all of a sudden," he said. "Talking like you thirty instead of sixteen." He narrowed his eyes. "What kind of dream was this?"
I leaned back in my chair, breathing steady. "The kind that wakes you up," I said simply.
For a moment, silence sat between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. Mom looked at me with pride glimmering behind her eyes, like maybe this was the son she'd been praying for. Dad, though, shook his head slowly and went back to eating.
"It's good you feel that way," he muttered. "But feelings fade. Let's see if you still talking like this next week."
It wasn't that he thought I was lying. It was that he didn't believe change was real. And who could blame him? How many times had I said I'd try harder, only to sink back into the same routine?
But this time was different. Because I wasn't the same.
---
We ate the rest of the meal mostly in silence, the clink of forks against plates filling the room. I kept sneaking glances at them, burning the moment into my memory. In my past life, I hadn't made time for things like this. I'd been too caught up escaping into a game, too busy drowning in my own pain to think about how they felt.
Not this time. This time, I was going to carry them with me.
Mom reached across the table, touching my hand. "Thank you, baby. For breakfast. You don't know how much that means."
I squeezed her hand back. "I do, Ma," I said quietly. "I really do."
---
Just then my phone buzzed on the counter, rattling against the chipped linoleum. I reached over, flipped it face-up, and saw two names flashing on the screen.
Marcus & Zena.
My only two friends. The ones who'd been with me at my lowest. In my past life, they'd been bullied down into the dirt same as me — mocked, pushed, treated like nothing. They were lovers, yes, but more than that, they were loyal in a way nobody else ever was.
And now they were waiting outside my house.
I stared at the phone for a moment, heart pounding. In my last life, I hadn't been able to protect them. We'd all been slaves to other people's cruelty.
But this time? This time would be different.
I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and pushed back from the table.
"I gotta go, Ma," I said. "Marcus and Zena are outside."
Mom nodded, already gathering plates. "Be safe. And don't be skipping class."
Dad grunted, waving a hand. "Go on then. Don't keep your friends waiting."
I smiled at both of them. A real smile. "Don't worry. I got this."
As I stepped out the door, the morning sun hit me in the face, hot and bright. My friends stood on the curb, laughing about something, waiting for me like always.
Only this time, I wasn't the same.