And so we begin.
The last twenty minutes of art class become the most intense, focused, and utterly silent period of my entire high school career. The air around our table is thick with concentration. It's no longer the silence of awkwardness or tension, but the deep, reverent silence of creation.
We sit across from each other, our sketchbooks open, our pencils moving. The assignment is to draw each other, to capture an essence. But it feels like so much more than that. It feels like we are creating a map of the strange, uncharted territory between us.
I am supposed to be drawing Sophia. But how do you draw a walking contradiction? How do you capture the girl with the fortress walls and the hopelessly vulnerable eyes? How do you draw the quiet rhythm of her breathing, or the way a single strand of dark hair falls across her cheek when she's concentrating?
My hand moves, almost of its own accord. I don't draw her face, not at first. I start with her hands. The way they are curled around her pencil, a grip of absolute control and precision. I draw the small, elegant curve of her wrist, the ink smudge on her pinky finger. Her hands are a story in themselves—they build her walls, they wield her weapons of charcoal, and they create the beautiful, heartbreaking evidence of her soul.
Across the table, she is just as focused. Her eyes, narrowed in concentration, flick back and forth. From my face, to her paper. Back to my face. Back to her paper. It's a dizzying, unnerving feeling to be studied with such intensity. It's like she's trying to peel back my skin and draw the tangled network of nerves and memories underneath. I wonder what she sees. Does she see the seventeen-year-old boy who just moved to town? Or does she see the ancient, weary soul who has lived this same week on a loop?
She sees both. I know she does. That's what your eyes look like.
Mrs. Gable drifts by our table, a silent, smiling cloud of patchouli and approval. She looks at my drawing of Sophia's hands, then at Sophia's frenetic, searching lines as she tries to capture my face. She doesn't say a word. She just gives a small, satisfied nod and drifts away, as if to say, Yes. This is what I was hoping for.
The bell rings, ending the period. It feels like waking from a trance.
We both stop drawing at the exact same moment, as if a switch has been flipped. Sophia sets her pencil down, her shoulders slumping slightly, the intense energy of the last twenty minutes draining away.
"Well," she says, her voice a little hoarse. "That was… something."
"Yeah," I agree, flexing my cramped fingers. "It was."
There's an unspoken rule that we don't show each other our work. Not yet. It feels too raw, too personal. It's like we've just written the first, secret entries in a shared diary.
As we pack up our things, a new, comfortable kind of silence settles between us. We've crossed a bridge. We're on the other side of something. We don't have answers, but we have a shared question, and for now, that's enough to build on.
"So," I say, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. "Are we supposed to, like, work on this outside of class?"
It's a practical question about a school project, but it feels loaded. It's me asking if this connection we've just forged is allowed to exist beyond the safe, contained walls of Room 214.
Sophia considers this for a moment, her gaze distant. "I guess," she says slowly. "We could meet up. At the library, or somewhere quiet."
"The bookstore?" The suggestion is out of my mouth before I can stop it. It's a risk. It's referencing our shared pattern, our cosmic coincidence.
She looks at me, and a small, wry smile touches her lips. "Trying to tempt fate, Rivera?"
"Just seems like the universe wants us there anyway," I counter, my own smile matching hers. "Might as well make it official."
She actually laughs. A small, breathy, beautiful sound. It's the first time I've heard her laugh in this timeline. It's a sound that I would live a thousand cycles just to hear again.
"Okay," she says, the laugh softening her entire face. "The bookstore. After school tomorrow?"
"It's a date," I say, and then immediately cringe internally. A date? Really? Smooth, Marcus. Incredibly smooth.
But she doesn't seem to notice my spectacular failure at being cool. Or if she does, she doesn't care. "It's a project meeting," she corrects, but there's no heat in it. Just a playful glimmer in her eye. "Don't get ahead of yourself, writer boy."
She turns and walks out of the room, leaving me standing there with a stupid, hopeful grin plastered all over my face.
A project meeting. At the bookstore. Tomorrow.
For the rest of the day, I feel like I'm floating. Every class, every conversation is just a thing that happens in the waiting period before I get to see her again. I'm buzzing with a nervous, electric energy. It feels like the day before a real first date, because in a way, it is. It's the first time we'll be choosing to be in the same place at the same time. It's not fate, not a coincidence, not a cosmic pull. It's a choice.
After school, I'm walking with Ethan toward the bus stop when he suddenly stops and grabs my arm.
"Dude. Don't look now," he whispers, his voice low and urgent. "Alex Montgomery. Twelve o'clock. And he is staring daggers at you."
My stomach drops.
Alex. I had completely forgotten about Alex. In the chaos of this new cycle, in the intensity of my connection with Sophia, my designated rival hadn't even registered. But here he is, just like clockwork.
I turn my head slightly. And sure enough, there he is. Leaning against a sleek black car, looking every bit the part of the wealthy, popular antagonist. He's surrounded by his usual group of friends, but his gaze is fixed on me. It's a cold, appraising look. The look of a predator who has just identified a new, interesting piece of prey in his territory.
In Cycle 1, his attention was focused on Sophia. His rivalry with me was a byproduct of that. But now… his stare isn't about her. It's aimed directly, solely, at me.
"Who is that?" I ask, feigning ignorance.
"Alex Montgomery," Ethan says, his voice tight. "Captain of everything, heir to half the town, and general king of the Northwood High social food chain. And for some reason, he looks like you just ran over his dog."
Alex says something to his friends, never breaking eye contact with me. Then he pushes himself off the car and starts walking toward us. He moves with a slow, deliberate confidence that's designed to be intimidating. It's working.
"What did you do?" Ethan hisses beside me.
"Nothing!" I say, which is the honest truth. I've had zero interactions with the guy in this timeline.
He stops a few feet in front of us, his friends fanning out behind him like a backup chorus of condescension. He's tall, with perfectly styled blond hair and a smile that doesn't reach his cold, blue eyes.
"Rivera, right?" he says, his voice smooth and slick. "Marcus Rivera. The new kid."
"Yeah," I say, my posture instinctively becoming more defensive. "That's me."
"I've been hearing your name around," Alex says, his smile widening into something predatory. He glances at the school, then back at me. "You're making quite an impression." He pauses, letting the ambiguous words hang in the air. "I like to know who's who at my school. And I've decided… I don't like you."
The statement is so blunt, so unapologetically aggressive, it catches me off guard.
"Okay," I say slowly. "And I should care… why?"
Alex laughs, a short, sharp, unpleasant sound. "You will," he says, the smile finally dropping from his face. "Stay out of my way."
He doesn't say anything else. He just gives me one last, lingering look of pure, unadulterated disdain, then turns and walks back to his car with his entourage.
I stand there, stunned into silence, as the black car peels out of the parking lot.
Ethan lets out a low whistle beside me. "Well," he says, his eyes wide. "Congratulations, dude. You've been here for eight days, and you've already made a mortal enemy out of the most powerful guy in school. That's got to be a record."
I don't answer. I just stare at the empty space where Alex's car was, a cold feeling spreading through my chest.
This is a new variable. A dangerous one. And it's a variable I don't understand. In Cycle 1, Alex's antagonism was about Sophia. This time… it feels personal. It feels like he knows something.
The fragile, hopeful bubble I've been floating in all afternoon has just been violently, irrevocably popped.