August 11, 2001 — San Diego
The world felt too quiet.
Ethan sat on the edge of his childhood bed, hands spread flat against the faded blue comforter he remembered hating as a teenager. The comforter had tiny embroidered stars on it—something he had teased his younger self about. Now he traced each little star with the tip of his finger as if the fabric could anchor him in this impossible moment.
Sunlight spilt through the blinds in soft yellow beams, illuminating dust particles floating lazily in the air. Everything was so still… so gentle. Nothing like the relentless noise of 2020 Los Angeles. No honking, no sirens, no roommates arguing through walls, no neighbours blasting EDM at 3 a.m. Just the sound of distant cars and the morning breeze rustling the palms outside.
He didn't know how long he sat there, breathing slowly, letting his heartbeat settle from the chaos of the morning. His young face stared back at him from the mirror across the room, eyes clear, skin unlined, hair thick and dark.
He looked foreign.
He looked familiar.
He looked like a promise.
A soft knock came at the door.
"Ethan?" his mother called quietly. "You okay?"
He swallowed. "Yeah. Just… getting dressed."
Her footsteps retreated. The ordinary sound of it made something in him ache.
He had heard those footsteps in his first life, too—but only through phone calls, where she paced while telling him about test results, doctor visits, growing old without him visiting as often as she wished. He had missed so much. Life had dragged him away from her until all he could do was make late-night phone promises he rarely kept.
But here she was again. Unwrinkled. Laughing. Alive.
He shut his eyes, overwhelmed.
I can't lose this again.
He stood slowly and approached the mirror, forcing himself to truly look. His reflection didn't show a miracle or a blessing—it showed responsibility. A second chance that demanded bravery. He pressed his palm against the glass. His younger self mirrored the gesture.
"Okay," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm back. This is real."
The world didn't shimmer or distort. No voices spoke from the sky. No glitch pulled him backwards. He was grounded—feet on the carpe,t he remembered spilling orange soda on at thirteen.
He exhaled shakily.
Step one: accept it.
His stomach fluttered with a cocktail of fear and excitement.
What was he supposed to do?
How was he supposed to live?
Should he try to follow his old path, or create a new one?
His first life had been defined by indecision. Hesitation. Fear of failure. He had spent years drifting from audition to audition without confidence, letting anxiety eat him alive. He had sabotaged relationships. Broken friendships. Ignored family. And worst of all… he had let Hollywood shape him instead of the other way around.
This time—this second life—he wouldn't drift. He wouldn't be powerless.
He had twenty years of emotional weight behind his gaze.
He had knowledge.
Experience.
Trauma, even—but he could turn that into strength.
He knew who would become stars.
He knew which directors would create masterpieces.
He knew which shows would explode.
He knew which people in the industry were dangerous.
He could survive.
He could thrive.
He could protect people.
He inhaled deeply, letting that certainty settle in his bones.
He dressed quickly—jeans, old sneakers, a plain T-shirt that smelled faintly like dust and detergent. It felt weirdly comfortable, like wearing nostalgia.
When he opened his bedroom door, the smell of pancakes reached him again. He walked down the familiar hallway, fingers brushing the framed photographs of family vacations. His younger face stared back from multiple angles—awkward grins, bad haircuts, braces.
His mother looked up from the stove when he entered the kitchen.
"There you are," she said, smiling. "Your dad wants to go to the hardware store later. You going with him?"
His father lowered the newspaper from the breakfast table and raised an eyebrow. "Unless you've got big eighteen-year-old plans."
Ethan felt his lips twitch. In his old life, he had avoided these little plans, claiming he was too busy, too important, too stressed. But now… these small moments felt priceless.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I'll go with him."
His father nodded approvingly, unaware of the storm brewing behind Ethan's calm expression.
They ate breakfast together again—simple, warm, grounding. His mother talked about grocery lists and summer sales. His father argued with the newspaper over baseball scores. It was mundane, and in its mundanity, beautiful.
Ethan watched them with a sort of reverence.
After cleaning his plate, he stood. "I'm gonna take a walk," he said. "Just want some fresh air."
His mother gave him a curious look but nodded. "Don't forget your keys."
He slipped outside, stepping into the bright mid-morning sunlight. The street was so familiar—kids riding bikes, dogs barking, neighbours watering lawns. It looked exactly as it had in the early 2000s, untouched by time.
He drew a deep breath.
Step two: figure out what to do next.
Acting.
Dreams.
Hollywood.
The future.
He knew everything that would happen in the next twenty years. He knew the rise of social media, the shift to superhero films, the collapse of certain studios, the scandals, the revolutions, the trends. He knew which movies would win Oscars. Which actors would blow up. Which celebrities would spiral and which would soar.
He could make different choices.
Smarter ones.
Safer ones.
His gaze drifted toward the bus stop at the end of the street.
In his first life, he had gone to his first acting class with fear crawling under his skin. He had almost skipped it. Had almost given up before even starting.
But not this time.
He headed down the sidewalk with long, confident strides.
Every step felt like rewriting destiny.
The community theatre wasn't far—but he didn't go straight there. Instead, he detoured through the little park he used to visit after school. The bench under the oak tree was still there, its wood faded and chipped. He sat down, letting the sunlight warm his face.
Everything felt too perfect. Too surreal. He wasn't afraid it was a dream anymore. He was afraid of how real it felt.
He pulled a leaf from the branch above him and rubbed it between his fingers. The texture, the scent of the air, the warmth of the sun… no dream could mimic this with such precision.
"This is real," he whispered again, grounding himself.
And with that acceptance came clarity.
He remembered the exact date of the auditions for ER.
He remembered which casting director he needed to impress.
He remembered the emotional beats he needed to hit.
Everything was lining up like dominoes.
He stood abruptly, energy coursing through him.
I'm not wasting this life.
When he returned home, his parents were in the living room. His father was fixing a lamp. His mother was folding laundry. Again, painfully ordinary. Again, priceless.
"Everything okay?" his mother asked.
Ethan nodded. "Yeah. I'm… I'm gonna start acting classes again."
His father raised an amused eyebrow. "Didn't you quit those last year?"
"I made the wrong choice," Ethan said simply.
His mother blinked, surprised by the maturity in his voice. "Well… if this is what you want, then we support you."
Those words—support—hit him like a punch.
He had gone decades without hearing them.
He nodded, swallowing the ache. "Thanks."
His father leaned back in the recliner. "Just remember: don't let anyone in that business push you around."
If only he knew.
Ethan smiled faintly. "I won't."
That night, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
He had accepted it.
He was here.
In 2001.
Young again.
Alive again.
He whispered into the darkness, not in desperation this time, but with a steady, determined breath:
"I'm going to get it right this time."
A soft breeze passed through the window, almost like the world whispering back:
Then begin.