**He opens his eyes.**The air smells like old pages, wood polish,The library.And across from him—
*Her.*You.
Same hoodie. Susan’s hoodie.Your knuckles white where your fingers bunch the fabric like it’s armor. And your eyes—God, your eyes. The kind of eyes that people pretend they didn’t see, because to acknowledge pain that raw is to feel it.
And he knows.He knows what day this is.
He’s been here before. Not once. Not twice. Hundreds of times, maybe. Time loops? Hell punishment? All that matters is this moment.
Because this is the day you died.Not literally. That came later.But this? This was the crack. The moment your spine bent too far under the weight of their cruelty. The moment nobody helped.The moment he didn’t help.
In the original timeline, Elliot was a ghost before he ever died.Raised his hand in every class. Built circuits for fun. Wrote poems in the margins of his notebooks, scribbled songs that no one heard. The kind of kid teachers said had a “spark.”
Then you showed up.Weird, with your voodoo books and matchstick rituals and soft voice that bit like a blade when provoked. You wore black before it was cool.
You did spells in the bathroom with Susan. Told him once you believed in souls that didn’t rest unless someone cared enough to dig them up.
He never laughed at that.Not once.He thought it was kind of beautiful.Kind of terrifying.Kind of you.
But as time went on, the spark dimmed.
The bullying started slow. Snickers in the hallway. "Witch bitch" scrawled on your locker. Jason’s group was the worst. Entitled little pyromaniacs with daddy issues and rotted teeth behind perfect smiles.
And Elliot?He did nothingNot because he didn’t care.Because he cared too much. Because it made his throat close up. Because he was scared.
You were fire. He was glass.And fire breaks glass without meaning to.
Then came the worst day. The stairwell. The drag. The screams.
He watched.
Frozen.
You looked back as they shoved you into that empty classroom—your eyes screaming louder than your mouth. And he turned his head away.
That night, you didn’t text back. The next week, you weren’t at school. Three weeks later, they found your body.
The world moved on.
But Elliot shattered.
People pretended to care, but they moved on fast. Suicide made them uncomfortable. The teachers gave out handouts. There was a counselor in the cafeteria for a day. Then it was over.
But for him?
It never ended.
He stopped going to school. Barely ate. Barely slept. He holed up in his room like a tomb, replaying your last moments on a loop. The guilt rotted him from the inside out. Like mold under skin.
He started with his mom’s meds. Just one or two. Enough to dull things.
Then it turned into vodka and Xanax and the kind of pain that clings to your ribs when you’re vomiting in the sink at 3am and praying to die but not brave enough to do it.
Until he was.
And then—nothing. Darkness. Silence.
And now… this.
You. The library. The day.
A second chance or a curse wrapped in your smile.
He looks at you now.
His body feels heavier than it used to. Not older exactly—he still looks like him, but different. Less soft. His eyes have that look people get after losing everything and then losing themselves too.
You don’t speak at first. You’re curled into yourself. You say, just like before:
“Oh… this jacket isn’t mine. Mine broke.”
Same words. Same pause.
In the old timeline, he stayed quiet. Let the lie pass. Let you die with it.
But this time?
His voice is low. Not loud. But firm. It doesn’t waver.
“I know it’s Susan’s. You weren’t wearing it this morning.” “I saw them. Jason and the others. I watched.”
You freeze.
He leans forward, eyes burning with a grief that never found closure.
“I watched them push you down the stairs. Drag you into the empty classroom. I watched your face. And I turned away.”