It always starts the same way. I'm walking home, the sun dipping low on the horizon, casting long shadows on the quiet streets. My bag feels heavier than it should, the weight of something I can't quite name pressing against my shoulders. The air is crisp, tinged with the faint scent of blooming flowers, but there's an unease I can't shake. And then… it happens.
The world shifts.
At first, it's subtle. The familiar streetlights flicker like dying fireflies, and the sound of distant laughter grows faint. I take a step forward, and suddenly, I'm no longer walking. I'm falling. Or maybe floating. Time splinters, fragments spinning around me like shards of broken glass. Images flash before my eyes: a girl's silhouette against a burning sunset, the deafening screech of brakes, and the cold, unyielding darkness that always follows.
And then I wake up.
The alarm clock's shrill ring yanks me back to reality. My chest heaves as I sit up, drenched in sweat. The dream—no, the memory—still clings to me, vivid and unrelenting. It's not the first time. It won't be the last.
"Ren! Breakfast is ready!" my mother calls from downstairs, her voice piercing through the haze of my thoughts.
I glance at the clock. [07:02:00] Loop Initialized. The same time, every time. My hands tremble as I reach for the glass of water on my bedside table. The cool liquid does little to steady me. The loop has started again.
The uniform feels stiff against my skin as I dress, each button a reminder of the day I've lived too many times to count. I catch my reflection in the mirror: tired eyes, disheveled hair, and a face etched with weariness far beyond my years. I've tried to fight it, to change the course of this endless cycle, but every attempt only brings me back to the beginning.
"Ren!" my mother calls again, sharper this time.
"Coming!" I reply, grabbing my bag and heading downstairs. The scent of toasted bread and green tea greets me, a cruel reminder of the routine I can't escape. My mother smiles as she sets the table.
"Big day," she says, just like always. "New semester, new beginnings. Are you ready?"
I nod, but the words feel hollow. Ready? For what? Another cycle of the same events, the same failures?