The ceiling fan whirred overhead, slow and steady, as Meher sat at the edge of her bed, trembling but awake. Her breathing was shallow. Her fingers curled tightly in the bedsheet, grounding herself.
The light outside her window told her it was morning. Her heart told her something else entirely.
She had died.
And now, somehow, she was here again, in her seventeen-year-old body. Her body might have been younger, but her soul had burned, broken, and clawed its way back. This wasn't a dream. This was her second life.
Suddenly... CRASH. Her door flew open.
"Meher!"
It was her father, storming in with anger already painted on his face. Her stepmother trailed behind, smugly silent. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he barked. "You pushed Rhea into the pool in front of everyone!" Rhea stood behind them, soaked, shivering, and smirking. The same fake tears. The same perfect game.
Meher remembered this day. This was the first time she dared to speak back, just a little. In her past life, she had apologized. She'd bowed her head. And that was when the slow erasure of her spirit began.
Not this time.
Her voice was steady. "She pushed me first. You just didn't see it.", "What?" her father snapped. "She tripped me near the pool," Meher said calmly. "I pulled her in to save myself. If you had eyes for me the way you have for your precious Rhea, you'd know."
Rhea gasped. Her stepmother scoffed. Her father's hand raised. This time, Meher didn't flinch. "You want to hit me?" she said. "Go ahead. But I won't say sorry for defending myself.". The room fell into stunned silence. "I'm not your punching bag anymore. Not her shadow. Not your mistake". She turned away from them and picked up a towel. "Now get out. I need to change."
They left her room, not out of guilt, but shock. Meher exhaled. Her knees nearly gave out from the adrenaline. But inside her chest, for the first time, her heart didn't feel crushed. She stood up for herself. Not for attention. Not for rebellion. But to survive. She knew what this world was capable of. She remembered the betrayal, the bruises, the cold. But now, she had the power of foresight. Of strategy. Of fire.
Later that day, her stepmother tried to bring her lunch — sweet voice, fake apology. "You didn't eat anything, beta," she cooed. "Rhea said she forgives you. Why don't we...", "No, thank you," Meher interrupted. "From now on, I'll handle my meals." She shut the door before another word could be spoken.
That night, Meher opened her old diary and began writing again. Not poetry like before. But plans.
Names. Dates. Patterns.
She would not walk blindly to her death again. She would become strong, cold, if needed, and prepared. And when fate brought Devian back into her path, she would be ready this time.