The next morning drifted in quietly, the kind of silence that feels too calm after everything that's happened. I sat at the dining table, crunching through a bowl of cereal that had already gone soggy. The milk was lukewarm, the house still dim.
My siblings had already gone off to school, their backpacks and noise gone with them. Mom was still asleep upstairs—probably the first full rest she'd had in days—and I didn't have the heart to wake her just because the bus was running late.
The digital clock on the microwave blinked at me every few seconds, reminding me that time hadn't stopped just because my world had. Fifteen minutes. That's how late the bus was.
Eventually, I got up and walked out, the morning air cutting cool against my face. The neighborhood felt hollow—quiet lawns, motionless sprinklers, and the faint smell of dew clinging to cracked pavement. I stood at the bus stop, the same faded sign I'd seen a thousand times before, but something about it felt...off. Like it didn't belong here anymore. Or maybe I didn't.
Life was never going to be normal again. I knew that the second I turned back time. I didn't even realize the residual energy from the Nexus could reach that far—that it could linger after being ripped out of me. But I should've known.
The Nexus isn't just some weapon or machine—it's a cosmic entity. Something beyond reason, beyond the rules we live by. And somehow, pieces of it are still echoing through me, like ghosts in my bloodstream.
Twenty minutes passed. No bus. Just the low hum of the wind moving through the street.
Then a black SUV pulled up a few yards away, sleek and quiet. It idled for a moment—no windows rolled down, no one got out—just sat there. My pulse ticked higher. After a few seconds, it pulled away, turning the corner like it had never been there at all.
A few minutes later, the bus finally arrived, tires screeching as it stopped. I climbed aboard, took my usual seat by the window, and tried not to think too much about it.
Sayria slid into the seat beside me, like she always did. She was talking about some upcoming project, her hands moving while she explained the deadlines. I tried to focus on her words, but all I could do was stare into her eyes. Something about them caught me—something I couldn't name. It wasn't romantic, exactly. It was...strange. Like recognition.
Without the Nexus, I can't understand these things anymore. Back then, when I still had it, emotions made sense in a way nothing else did. I could feel the logic behind them—the frequencies, the colors of thought, the rhythm of fear or hope. Now everything's just static.
School passed the same as always—classes, lunch, more classes. The usual blur of noise and meaningless chatter. I saw my friends here and there, exchanged quick hellos, but I didn't feel like talking. I just wanted to go home.
The sky was dim by the time I started walking back. My shoes crunched on the sidewalk, and every step felt heavier. That's when I noticed it again—another black SUV creeping along the opposite side of the road.
I kept my eyes straight, pretending not to see it. But it matched my pace, slow and deliberate. My chest tightened. I picked up speed. So did the SUV.
Then I turned the corner and collided hard into someone—a woman walking her dog. We both stumbled back, the leash tangling around her legs.
"I'm so sorry—there's some—"
But when I looked up, the SUV was gone. Just...gone.
"Watch it," the woman snapped, brushing off her coat.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, helping her steady herself. She gave me a look and walked off with her dog trotting beside her.
I turned back toward the street again. Nothing. No engine, no headlights. Just silence.
Then I heard it. That low, vibrating hum—faint, but enough to send chills racing up my spine. It wasn't coming from anywhere specific; it was just there, like the air itself was alive.
I spun around. And that's when I saw him.
Me.
Standing at the end of the sidewalk.
My stomach dropped. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he started walking toward me. My breathing hitched, and I instinctively backed away. The other me started moving faster, then sprinting.
I turned to run but slammed into a wooden fence that hadn't been there a second ago. The sound cracked through the air. I turned back, and there he was—me, but younger. Maybe thirteen. His hair was shorter, his clothes faded and oversized.
"What are you?" I said.
He said it too. In perfect sync.
"What do you want?"
He echoed that, too. Same tone. Same inflection.
Then another version of me appeared on my right—this one even younger, maybe ten years old. And another to my left, around the age I was ten years ago, the version of me who still thought the world made sense.
I spun around, heart hammering, staring at all three of them. "Are y'all real?"
They all said it together.
The sound of my own voice multiplied like an echo chamber.
"Stop!" I shouted.
"Stop!" they shouted back.
My throat tightened, and I started hyperventilating. The air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on me. My vision blurred as I covered my eyes, trying to drown it all out.
And then—nothing.
Silence.
When I opened my eyes again, I was on the floor of my living room.
But it wasn't my living room. Not the one from this morning, anyway. The furniture was in the wrong places, the photos on the walls looked different, and bright paper streamers hung from the ceiling. Balloons were everywhere. The faint smell of frosting and candle wax filled the air.
"Happy birthday!" a bunch of voices yelled from the next room.
I turned toward the sound, and a rush of kids came running past me, laughing and shouting. One of them stopped for a moment, looked up at me—and my heart nearly stopped.
It was me.
A younger version of me, no older than seven, grinning with a missing front tooth, before running outside with the others.
That's when it hit me.
This wasn't real.
This was a memory.
And before I could even question how or why, I followed the sound of their laughter—out the back door, into the bright sunlight of a day I'd already lived once.