(2002 — Los Angeles & San Diego)
Ethan woke up before his alarm, something he hadn't done since the first week he had woken up in the past. The excitement humming under his skin wasn't from adrenaline or fear now—it was from routine. From purpose.
In his first life, he had never found a rhythm. Every day had been chaos, uncertainty, panic. Acting had felt like throwing himself into a blender and hoping something edible would come out.
This time, his days had shape.
Mornings were for sides, script breakdowns, and monologue practice.
Afternoons were for classes.
Nights… well, nights were becoming something entirely different now.
His phone buzzed.
Britney: u up??
He couldn't help smiling. She always wrote like she was pressing the keys too fast, shortening words, adding extras—tiny bursts of personality. Each message felt like she was talking exactly like she did in interviews back then: bubbly, warm, trying to sound casual even when she cared too much.
He typed back:
Ethan: Yeah, I'm up. You okay?
Britney: i'm okay, jus tired. long morning rehearsing, u wanna talk?
The old him—the 38-year-old stuck inside him—wanted to call immediately, to comfort her, to tell her she didn't have to be "on" all the time. But the young version of her, the real Britney from 2002, lived in a world of managers, schedules, rehearsals, and appearances. Stress was normal. Exhaustion was expected.
So he called.
"Hey," she answered in that soft Louisiana lilt, breathy and sweet, the way she always sounded in interviews despite being exhausted. "I'm sorry if I bothered you. I know you're busy too."
"You didn't bother me," Ethan said, leaning back on his bed. "I like hearing your voice."
She giggled—a real one, not the polished public laugh she used on MTV.
"Stoppp, you're bein' sweet this early? That should be illegal."
"What are you rehearsing?" he asked.
"MTV VMA promo stuff. And some choreography they wanna tweak."
Her tone shifted slightly—still light, but pulled thin around the edges.
"And I gotta be at the studio later for … you know … meetings."
He knew what she meant.
Management.
PR.
Brand shaping.
The machine.
"You're working too much," he said gently.
She didn't answer for a second.
When she did, her voice was calm, resigned—the voice of someone who learned early that "no" wasn't really an option.
"I kinda have to, y'know? This is the job."
He wanted to tell her she deserved rest.
But he also knew the pressure she was under. In 2002, Britney wasn't just a pop star—she was the pop star. Every magazine, every interview, every person watching her was building an impossible ideal around her.
"You're allowed to slow down," Ethan said instead.
"I know," she said in a soft, grateful sigh. "But I like that you say it."
They talked a bit longer—about music she loved, about a silly dream she had, about a fan who gave her a drawing last night after rehearsal. She spoke exactly as she always did: excited about simple joys, rambling in that endearing way that made people underestimate her intelligence. But Ethan heard the sharp mind beneath every sentence.
He always had.
When they hung up, he stared at his phone for a moment, the afterglow of the call lingering. This connection—it felt fragile, delicate, like touching glass that could shatter if he pressed too hard. He needed to be careful. With her, with himself, with the future.
He had an acting class at 10.
He forced himself out of bed.
Acting class was a different world today.
Mary Holden watched him like she knew he was planning something. She assigned him a scene with a girl named Rachel, who clearly had been doing community theatre since she was seven and wanted everyone to know it.
Their scene was decent, but halfway through, Mary stopped them.
"No, no. Ethan, you're holding back again."
"I'm not," he argued—not defensively, but honestly.
"You are," she insisted, crossing her arms. "You're thinking about something else."
He blinked. Was he that transparent?
Rachel huffed under her breath.
"Can we just start over?"
Mary ignored her.
"Ethan, whatever's distracting you… leave it outside. The scene can't breathe if you're not in it."
He inhaled slowly.
She was right.
He was thinking about Britney.
About the call.
About her exhaustion.
About the machine that was going to devour her in a year.
He took a moment, grounded himself, and when they restarted, he fell into the scene completely. When it ended, the room was quiet. Rachel stared at him differently—as she'd just seen something she didn't understand.
Mary nodded once.
"That. That's the actor you're supposed to be. Don't lose him."
After class, while the others left in clusters, Mary pulled him aside.
"What's going on with you?" she asked.
Ethan hesitated before saying, "I'm… balancing things."
"Balancing what? You barely started your career."
"Life," he answered simply.
Mary looked at him for a long moment.
"Whatever you're balancing, make sure it doesn't steal what you just gave on that stage."
He nodded.
He understood.
He wouldn't let his feelings—no matter how strong—derail this second chance.
But the truth was… they already were affecting him. In ways he hadn't fully realised.
That evening, Britney called again.
She was whispering.
"Hey," she said breathlessly, "can you talk? I'm hidin' from people right now."
"Hiding?" Ethan laughed softly. "Where?"
"In the bathroom."
She giggled like she couldn't believe she was doing it.
"There's too many people in the hallway. They wanna make me do another interview, and I literally just finished one."
"You don't want to?"
"No. I just wanted… I dunno… a second to breathe."
Then, quieter:
"A second where nobody needs somethin' from me."
Ethan sat up.
He could picture her in some studio bathroom, sitting on the counter, blonde hair pulled back loosely, still in rehearsal clothes, exhausted but still trying to sound cheerful.
"You can talk to me," he said. "If that helps."
"It does," she whispered.
Then she laughed softly.
"You're like…"
"Like what?"
She hesitated.
"…like real."
He blinked.
"Real?"
"Yeah. Not like… the guys they put around me. Managers, dancers, interviewers, security guards. Everyone's always smilin' and noddin' but it's… not real. You're different. You're just… you."
He felt warmth spread inside him.
But also fear.
Because he knew where her future was heading, and the idea of being important to her—of being someone she turned to—terrified him in ways he didn't know how to name.
"Britney," he said quietly, "you care about people too much. That's why everything hurts you more than it should."
She was silent for a long moment.
When she spoke again, she sounded raw.
"Yeah… I know."
He heard someone shouting her name in the distance.
"Crap," she said in a tiny whisper. "They found me. I gotta go."
"Take care of yourself," Ethan said.
Her voice softened again.
"You too. And… thanks. For bein' nice."
"I'm not being nice," Ethan said. "I'm just being honest."
She giggled—shy, sweet, real.
"Bye, Ethan."
The call ended.
Ethan set the phone down and leaned back against his headboard.
He was falling.
And he knew she was too.
But their lives were on different tracks—his still rising, hers barreling toward a darkness he remembered all too clearly.
He needed to handle this carefully.
He needed to protect her.
But he also needed to protect himself.
His mother knocked on the door.
"Dinner's ready!"
Ethan stood, took a deep breath, and reminded himself:
He could balance this.
His career.
His second life.
And Britney.
He had to.
Because for the first time in two lifetimes, he felt something he never thought he'd feel again
Hope.