1978 — The Awakening
When I came into existence again and could feel my heartbeat for the first time in so long, it was... wonderful.
I remember my past. Not everything, but pieces—bits of my old life clung like torn pages of a book. My mind was sharper now, painfully sharp, aware in ways that felt both thrilling and cruel.
You may ask: Why would awareness be bad?Well, that's simple. I had just been born again.
I'm in a hospital room. It smells sterile—sharp like alcohol and metal—with men and women in scrubs moving under the hum of cold fluorescent lights. A man leaned over, smacked me on the ass, and—what the hell? That hurt!
Instinct took over, and I cried. Not by choice—tears started pouring out of this new body, betraying the will of my soul.
The doctors gasped when they looked at my eyes, startled, whispering among themselves but continuing their checks. Then they placed me in the arms of a woman—my mother.
I knew her face from somewhere. I couldn't fully recall.
Days passed in the hospital. Then I was taken to my new home and met the rest of my family—a big man with kind but tired eyes (my father), a boy about three years old (my older brother), and an older woman with a fierce smile (my grandmother).
Six Months Later
It finally clicked why I recognized my mother—and the realization hit like lightning through fog.
Her name is Mary Cooper.My father: George Cooper Sr.My older brother: George Jr., though everyone calls him Georgie.
And me?Stephen Eli Cooper.
So… I was reborn in Young Sheldon.
I hadn't watched much of the show before—just bits and pieces—but I knew enough.
And here I was—an adult mind in a baby's body. It's humiliating, really. I can solve complex puzzles in my head but can't control my own bladder. The absolute shame of being changed while knowing my IQ is superior to all in this world—well, you can imagine.
But I take comfort in logic. I know my coordination and control will improve. I just need time.
For now, I wait and watch. Georgie is a good kid—loud, but loyal. And Mary... she's so full of love it's disarming.
1979 — One Year Old
Georgie's a good big brother. I can't recall if I had siblings before, but if I did, I hope they're well.
My dilemma: I'm already too smart. I can access a lot through the fragments I remember from before. Programming used to be a hobby—nothing grand—but with this IQ, it all just clicks. Math, science, logic… they unfold like muscle memory.
But here's the thing:I'm lazy.
I don't want to blaze through childhood like some prodigy headline. I'd rather take it slow—smarter than average, sure, but not that smart.
We'll see how long that lasts. I'm only a year old; that's a lot to put on tiny shoulders.
Still, I enjoy simple things—Mom rocking me to sleep while she hums in rhythm with the clock.
Oh, and I've learned why the doctors stared: my eyes.
They're a dark steel-purple color, an odd mutation that catches light like metal.
I started to walk at ten months—I think it's because of my peak human condition—and at around eleven months I spoke my first word. Of course, it was "Mama."
I'm a quiet-ish baby. I like rhythm and sound. I recognize patterns in lullabies. It's an interesting observation.
1980 — Two Years Old
This was the year everything became real. My suspicions were confirmed when Mom gave birth to twins—Sheldon and Missy Cooper.
I was thrilled. I knew, from my past life's knowledge, that my little brother could be... well, challenging. But this time, I'd be ready. This time, I'd be a big brother who stayed.
While Mom was pregnant, I spent most of my days with Meemaw. She was funny, sharp, and kind of terrifying—in a good way. Dad still seemed overwhelmed, like he couldn't quite believe there were now four of us.
When Sheldon and Missy came home, something inside me shifted. A strange recognition—almost a spark, like déjà vu that hummed in my chest.
I looked at Sheldon and Missy and I felt... connected.
1981 — Three Years Old
My intelligence keeps accelerating. I can speak in full sentences now, ask complex questions—though I try to hold back sometimes. It's exhausting to seem normal.
Despite being naturally lazy, I can't resist learning. Patterns, numbers, motion—they draw me in. I find myself counting fan rotations, tracing symmetry in shadows.
Sheldon fascinates me. Even as a toddler, there's a spark in him—bright, restless, and hungry for order. Missy, on the other hand, laughs at everything. She's the sunlight that keeps the house alive.
Dad worries about me. He says I should "go outside and play like a normal kid." I try. But I can't stop seeing the math in everything—the way a ball arcs, the pattern of wind in grass.
1982 — Four Years Old
I can read basic words now—small books, signs, and labels. I'm obsessed with picture books and patterns. Numbers calm me.
Dad still worries. He says I'm "too serious for a little kid," and that I need to play more—maybe "get dirty once in a while." He means well, but I can see confusion behind his smile. I try, but pretending to be a normal four-year-old feels like acting in a movie I didn't audition for.
He doesn't understand that the world in my head is louder than the one outside.
Mom doesn't seem worried. She just smiles when I read aloud. She hums while I count. Sometimes I catch her looking at me like she's both proud and scared of what I might become.
Lately, I've been having strange dreams—vivid ones. Dogs I used to have. Faces I don't remember. I wake up crying, feeling a loss that doesn't belong to this life.
Every morning, I tell myself the same thing:
"You're Stephen Cooper now. Don't forget—but don't look back."
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