I'm losing it. Like, actually, quantifiably losing my mind.
Or maybe the world is broken. That is still very much on the table. In fact, after the unmitigated disaster that was lunch, I'm sincerely hoping the universe is having a psychotic break, because the alternative—that this is all my fault—is a whole lot harder to swallow.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of detached, out-of-body horror. I go to my classes. I listen to teachers talk about historical dates and algebraic formulas that have absolutely no bearing on the fact that my reality has become unstitched from the fabric of time. With every tick of the clock, the hope from this morning feels more and more like a hallucination.
Ethan was right. Existential dread is a biter.
The problem with knowing the future—even just a forty-seven-day slice of it—is that you see every path you're not taking. Every wrong turn. Every deviation feels like a monumental, catastrophic error. My disastrous attempt at conversation with Sophia at lunch wasn't just an awkward moment; it was a schism, a branching timeline that could lead me away from the rooftop forever.
By the time the final bell rings, a dull headache is pounding behind my eyes, a frantic Morse code of panic.
You broke it. You broke it. You broke it.
I walk out of the school and into the bright, unforgiving afternoon sun. The air is warm, smelling of cut grass and bus exhaust. Kids are streaming out of the doors, laughing and shouting, their lives beautifully, infuriatingly linear. They get a tomorrow that isn't also a today.
I don't want to go home. Home is just another stage in a play I've forgotten my lines for. So I do something new. Something completely off-script.
I start walking. Not toward the bus stop, but in the opposite direction. Away from the school, away from the path I know. I just need to feel like I have some control, even if it's just the choice of which patch of suburban pavement I put my feet on.
My walk takes me through quiet, tree-lined streets I've only ever seen through a bus window. After about fifteen minutes, I find myself standing in front of a small, unassuming building tucked between a laundromat and a bakery. "The Last Page," reads the faded green sign hanging above the door. A bookstore. My bookstore. Or, the bookstore where I will eventually get a part-time job on Day 12 of Cycle 1.
The windows are crammed with towers of books, dusty and beloved. A small, hand-painted sign taped to the glass says "Help Wanted."
An idea, reckless and probably stupid, sparks in my brain.
The loop is already broken. The script is shredded. So what if I just lean into it? What if I stop trying to perfectly replicate the past and start using what I know to jump ahead?
Without giving myself time to overthink it—an Olympic sport at which I am a gold medalist—I push open the door.
A little bell chimes, a gentle, welcoming sound. The inside smells incredible. It's the scent of old paper, binding glue, and brewed coffee. It's the smell of stories. Aisles of towering wooden shelves create a labyrinth of literature. It's quiet. Peaceful. A sanctuary from the screaming chaos in my head.
An older woman with a wild mane of silver hair and funky, bright blue reading glasses looks up from behind the counter. She smiles, a warm, genuine expression that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Welcome to The Last Page," she says, her voice raspy and kind. "Can I help you find anything, or are you just here to breathe the air? Both are valid reasons to visit."
This is Eleanor. I know that in two weeks, she'll interview me for a job. I know she loves Earl Grey tea and has a cat named Kafka. I know she will become one of the few people in this town I genuinely like. Right now, she just sees a nervous teenager with a backpack.
"I, uh, I saw the sign in the window," I say, my voice coming out a little shaky. "The 'Help Wanted' sign?"
Eleanor's eyebrows raise in interest. She leans forward, resting her elbows on a stack of poetry books. "You're a little young, aren't you? You look like you should be doing homework, not applying for a job that pays mostly in literary satisfaction."
"I'm seventeen. I'm a hard worker. I… I really love books." The last part, at least, is completely true.
She studies me for a long, quiet moment. I can feel her assessing me, reading me like the cover of a new novel. In Cycle 1, I was a nervous wreck during this conversation. This time, I'm a nervous wreck for entirely different reasons, but I know what she wants to hear.
"I just moved here," I add, preempting her next question. "My dad and I. I'm trying to, you know, find my footing. A job seems like a good way to do that."
Eleanor's smile returns, softer this time. "Well, you get points for honesty. And bravery, walking in here cold like this." She pushes a simple, one-page application across the counter. "Fill this out. No promises, but I like your vibe."
My hands are trembling slightly as I take the form and a pen. I sit at a small, rickety table near the window and start to fill it out. The simple act of writing my name, my address—things that feel both real and entirely fictitious at the same time—is oddly grounding. I'm making a new choice. I'm building a new pattern.
I'm halfway through filling out my previous work experience (scooping ice cream, a lifetime ago) when the bell on the door chimes again. I don't look up. Not until I hear a voice that makes every muscle in my body go rigid.
"Hi, Eleanor. Just returning this."
It's her.
Sophia.
My head snaps up so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. She's standing at the counter, her back to me, holding out a worn copy of a book of poetry. I can't believe it. Of all the places, of all the times. This was never part of the script. I never saw her here.
"Ah, Neruda," Eleanor says, taking the book. "Good choice. Did he break your heart sufficiently?"
Sophia gives a small, breathy laugh. A ghost of the laugh I heard on the rooftop. "He always does. In the best way." She tucks a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear, and her gaze drifts around the store.
And then her eyes land on me.
Time stops.
For a second, there is absolutely no expression on her face. Just a blank, stunned stillness. Then, her eyes narrow slightly. It's the same look from art class. That unnerving, searching confusion. The look that says, There you are again. Why are you everywhere?
We're a thousand miles away from the Northwood High cafeteria. There are no social politics here, no best friends to act as a buffer. It's just us. Two strangers connected by a thread neither of us understands, in a quiet room that smells like old paper and forgotten stories.
She looks at me, and I look at her, and the silence in the bookstore feels louder than the screaming bell at school.
A war is raging inside me. Do I say something? Do I smile? Do I just look away and pretend I don't see the living, breathing embodiment of all my hope and despair standing ten feet away from me?
Before I can decide, she does something I never could have predicted.
She gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod. It's not friendly. It's not hostile. It's just… a recognition. An acknowledgment. I see you. Again.
Then she turns back to Eleanor, says a quiet goodbye, and walks out of the store. The little bell on the door chimes her exit, the sound echoing in the sudden, profound emptiness of the room.
I stare at the door she just walked through, my pen forgotten in my hand, the application half-finished. My heart is pounding, not with anxiety this time, but with a dizzying, terrifying new thought.
Maybe this isn't about a script. Maybe it never was.
A pattern is emerging, one that has nothing to do with my choices. A force I don't understand keeps putting us in each other's orbits. I changed the day, I changed my path, I went somewhere I wasn't supposed to be.
And she was there.
Waiting.
Like we're two magnets, and the universe keeps flipping our polarity, forcing us together whether we want it or not.
I look down at the application. My hand is steady now.
This isn't about getting back to the rooftop kiss from Cycle 1. This is something new. I'm not repeating a story. I'm uncovering one. And maybe, just maybe, this bookstore is the next chapter.