Avery blinked against the soft morning light.
The air smelled faintly of old books, detergent, and something vaguely like toast. She sat up slowly, chest tight. The room looked… different. Smaller. Simpler. A younger version of herself must have lived here.
Her fingers brushed over the faded bedsheets, the same hoodie folded on the chair, and the desk cluttered with textbooks she recognized from years ago. She froze.
No.
This couldn't be real.
She swung her legs off the bed and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Slightly rounder cheeks, warm brown skin, bright, curious eyes—but younger. Much younger. Eighteen, maybe?
Her mind raced. "What… how…?"
Avery pinched herself. It hurt. She slapped her own arm. Yep. Painful. Real. Yet impossible. She was twenty-two. She had just been at home… feeling stuck, exhausted, defeated. And now… this.
She sat on the edge of the bed, heart hammering. The dorm smelled the same as it had four years ago, but everything else screamed: second chance.
Segment 2 — Observing the Dorm and Nostalgia
The room was modest. A single bed, a small desk littered with notebooks, a tiny closet with clothes that had clearly been hers four years ago. Posters taped to the walls, faded and curling, showed debate slogans, motivational quotes, and a calendar she didn't remember hanging up.
Her fingers traced the edges of her old notebooks. Essays, lecture notes, reminders she had written for herself. Memories washed over her: late nights studying, frantic scribbles during exams, hurried morning walks to campus.
Avery wandered to the window. Outside, the street was the same as she remembered. Students cycled past, neighbors chatted over fences, and vendors set up their stalls. Everything was smaller, slower, simpler. Nostalgia wrapped around her like a warm hoodie.
She smiled faintly. The smell of laundry, the sun hitting the cracked concrete of the pavement, even the slightly squeaky hinges of the dorm door—it all brought her back. She could almost remember the nervous excitement of moving here for the first time.
And yet, there was a sharp edge to it. Knowledge. Awareness. She remembered everything from her life at twenty-two. Every mistake, every opportunity she had ignored, every club she had avoided. Every debate she had skipped because she was "too cautious."
The weight of what she could do differently pressed on her chest, but this time it was tinged with hope instead of regret.
Segment 3 — Paul Notices
A soft knock at the door pulled her out of her spiral.
"Hey, are you awake?"
Avery turned. Paul, her roommate and closest friend in the Social Science program, peeked in. Tall, lean, with a warm smile and expressive eyes, he had always been the type to notice the smallest details. And he always noticed her.
"Uh… yeah. Morning," Avery said, voice a little too quiet.
Paul stepped in, his eyebrows raised. "You look… different. Puffy eyes? Bedhead? And… something else. Are you okay?"
Avery opened her mouth but shut it again. How could she explain that she had literally traveled four years back in time? That she was twenty-two now, in the body of her eighteen-year-old self?
She settled for a small shrug. "Just… tired, I guess. Long night."
Paul tilted his head, unconvinced. "Mm. You're acting… weird. But I'll let it slide. Breakfast soon?"
"Yes. Breakfast," she said, forcing herself to sound normal.
Paul grinned, oblivious to the turmoil inside her. "Good. Don't make me drag you out of bed. I swear, I'll do it."
Avery let herself smile faintly. Paul. Always observant. Always humorous. He had been her anchor in college, even when she had stayed quiet and distant. And now, somehow, he was still exactly the same, except she knew… she knew everything that was coming.
Segment 4 — Tentative Acceptance
After Paul left, Avery sank onto her bed again. She stared at her hands, flexing and curling them. They were small, young hands again. Real hands. Her reality had… shifted.
She tried to deny it at first. Maybe it was a dream. A hallucination. Stress. The existential meltdown of a young adult without a plan.
But everything around her—the dorm, the street, the smell, the memory of her old routines—argued otherwise.
She exhaled slowly. "Okay… okay. This is happening."
Tentatively, she stood. Her plan was forming, careful and analytical. Observe first. Learn. Navigate college with the knowledge she had now. Avoid past mistakes. Be braver. Take risks. Do the things she had always avoided.
The sun hit her face through the window, warm and bright. Outside, the street hummed with life. Avery felt the tiniest spark of… excitement. Hope. Possibility.
She whispered to herself: "If this is real… I can do better this time."
She looked around the dorm room, at the old books and posters, at the familiar desk, and even at her own reflection in the mirror. A smile—small, cautious, but genuine—crept across her face.
Avery Manuel-Liman, twenty-two, in an eighteen-year-old body, had been handed a second chance.
And she was going to take it.