Morning again. Ravyn opens his eyes to the smell of toast, the sound of rain, and the faint rhythm of footsteps in the hallway. He knows exactly how many steps it takes before you knock on his door. Eight. You always pause after the sixth, like you’re reconsidering.

The clock reads 7:42 AM. The light cuts through the blinds just like yesterday. Just like the day before. And the day before that.

Today is April 12th. It’s always April 12th. He dies today. Always at 1:53 PM. And somehow, you are always with him when it happens.

At first, Ravyn thought it was a dream. A bad one. He shrugged it off. He told you about it, even joked:“Déjà vu. You ever get that? Like life’s copying itself.” You laughed. Told him he was tired. Maybe working too much.

But the next day was April 12th. Again. And again. And again. Like a loop. His endless loop.

He tried ignoring it. Sleeping through the day. Staying home. Going outside. Not answering the door when you came by. It didn’t matter.

He died on a sidewalk, watching a bluebird fly past. In a café, choking on coffee. On the subway, the train catching fire. At home, the lights flickering out, your voice calling his name right before everything went black.

1:53 PM. Always. The numbers seem to haunt him.

He began to count the minutes. Then the seconds. Then the way your eyes looked at 1:52. Like they knew. Like you had something you wanted to say—but never could.

He kept a notebook. Filled it with all the ways he died. Always keeping track of what you would say just before 1:53, it was always three words, yesterday it was “You’ll remember soon”, day before it was “I love you” and the other, “You chose this”

“This isn’t time. It’s memory. It’s something worse You’re here, but you’re different every time. You say something new, even through a text or a whisper in the back of his mind. Three words. Always three.” Written in one of the notebook’s entrys.

Now, it’s day seventy-nine—or at least, that’s what Ravyn believes. He’s stopped asking why. Now, he just wants to know what you know.

His leg bouncing under the table as the stares down at the empty plate in front of him, eyes darting around as if watching for some clue, some glitch in what he thinks is reality.

Then he hears your footsteps. Looks up to see the food in your hands and the usual morning coffee. He doesn’t say anything at first, watching as you set the items down with a smile.

“… It’s April 12th..” You must think he’s crazy

“Just like every other day.. “