Rewind

I gasped, breath flooding my lungs as my eyes shot open.

Frantically, I felt around my body, my mind struggling to process what had just occurred. My hands instinctively pressed against my stomach, expecting blood, pain—anything.

Only, there was nothing. Just smooth skin.

Untouched.

Whole.

Perfect.

I remembered everything. The pain, the wounds, and his voice: Calm, warm, sweet...and full of lies.

The betrayal cut deeper than anything I’d ever experienced. Deeper than any heartbreak before. He knew my weaknesses. He preyed on them. And I fell hopelessly for his lies.

His smooth, deceitful words.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stand. I couldn’t dwell on the past any longer. Oddly enough, there was no pain. My wounds had healed. But one question still haunted me.

“Where am I?”

The words slipped from my lips as I looked around the unfamiliar, yet eerily familiar room in which I now stood. My eyes caught a glimpse of something in the corner—a clock, sitting on the table near the bed. I turned, inspecting it.

I chuckled, reading the time. Ten o’clock. I looked closer to read the date, and a chill went up my spine.

I staggered backward, my stomach twisting. The walls around me seemed to close in, my breath coming in sharp gasps.

2012?!

A lump caught in my throat. My vision blurred as my mind scrambled for an explanation. This had to be a joke. A trick. That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. My hand shot out, gripping the clock, shaking it, as if I could rattle the numbers into something that made sense.

I read the date in sheer disbelief, my hands shaking with every letter and number I traced. There was no way. There had to be a reasonable explanation. It had to be a well-worked prank by him. He was playing one of those sick, twisted roleplay games again.

I began to doubt myself. Had I truly come back?

Tears welled up in my eyes. A life of sorrow and pain—snuffed out like a flame that burned too bright.

Only, the universe had heard my pleas. It had given me another chance.

One more dance.

I looked around the room, finally taking in its dimensions and intricacies. The walls were bright pink, decorated with little stickers and murals. On one side, a calendar hung as a visible reminder of the date. The other side of the room held a desk drawer, atop which sat a computer and its various attachments. Beside it stood a walk-in closet with a built-in mirror, through which I saw myself for the first time.

I stared at my reflection, my breath catching in my throat. Smooth skin. Wide, unburdened eyes. A face untouched by betrayal, by death. My fingers trembled, unsure if this face was truly mine, as they traced my jawline.

I was... young. A version of myself I had long forgotten.

I was beautiful.

I was pure.

And as much as it hurt... I was given a second chance. A second chance at life—at everything.

I was reborn.

I plopped into the desk chair, which had somehow rolled out into the center of the room. The weight of it all crushed my shoulders. Mixed emotions washed over me. On one hand, I was free. On the other, my one true love had been revealed as someone I never truly knew.

I took a breath, steadying myself as I walked over to the door of my room and pushed it open.

Instantly, I was hit with the scent of bread baking in the oven. I ran down the stairs and into the living room. There, off to one side, stood two familiar faces—my parents, cooking together as always. My dad, a man in his early fifties, looked up and over at me, his eyes warm and welcoming, as if he’d sensed my presence.

I blinked, unable to process the scene before me. Their warmth, their laughter, the simple comfort of seeing them alive... It felt like I was seeing them for the first time. A strange pang of nostalgia mixed with the weight of my second chance.

Was I really here? Could one truly live again?

To keep the tears at bay, I focused on the scent of the bread—slightly burnt on the edges, just the way we always liked it. The familiar aroma clung to the air, blending with the soft hum of the kitchen and the distant chatter of the TV in the background.

The world felt normal. It felt perfect.

“You okay, sweetheart?” my dad’s voice snapped me out of my trance, pulling me back into this “real” world.

“I’m fine,” I replied after a long moment of silence. “Just thinking.”

He nodded, though a concerned expression lingered on his face. Typical of my father. He and Mom always doted on us, sometimes to the point where it became a little unbearable.

My eyes drifted again, this time to a photo hanging on the farthest wall. From where I stood, I could only make out the outline of the image—but I recognized the face instantly. It was my grandmother. The caption beneath confirmed this strange phenomenon. She was dead.

She’d passed in June, 2012. I remembered my father’s conflicted expression every time he walked past that photo—grief tangled with long-buried resentment.

Resentment in that he hated how she treated him—and worse, his wife—with less respect than one gives a dog.

It was real. All of it.