Chapter 8

GRACE'S POV 

The moment I shut my apartment door behind me, the silence hit differently. It wasn't peaceful, neither was it comforting. It was heavy, because now that I was behind closed doors, in an apartment that belonged to me, everything weighed in on me once again.

I dropped my bag on the floor, and leaned against the door, my fingers still curled around the handle, my breathing uneven. 

Everything felt too real, it was too detailed. No illusion or dream should hold such consistency and detailing. Dreams and delusions did not continue like this, like real life. Dreams had moments of sudden skips, some absurd features and not continuous elements.

But this? This had continuity, too much continuity. And that terrified me more than anything, because what was going on?

I pushed myself off the door and slowly turned around, taking in the apartment I hadn’t seen in ten years. The same couch sat there, untouched with not even a speck of dust, like someone was here the morning before I woke up bizarrely. That someone was me. 

The same tiny dining table I had bought secondhand stood to the side, two chairs opposite each other accompanied the table. The same chipped mug sitting on the kitchen counter that I swore I’d throw away but never did. 

My throat tightened. God, this was real. I was starting to realize it. 

“I really am here…” I whispered, like someone would hear me and come out.

I kicked my shoes off my feet and onto the floor and walked further in, my steps hesitant, like I was afraid the ground might disappear beneath me. 

Everything was untouched, like it was frozen in time. 

I ran a hand through my hair, pacing now. “Okay. Think, Grace. Think.” I wanted something, something that wouldn't sound absurd, something that would make sense, to click.

If this wasn’t a dream, then I had just been handed something impossible. A second chance.

But why? And how? And most importantly, for how long? How long would I be in this reality? 

My chest tightened at the thought of Michael, Susan, and the betrayal. I couldn't believe that Michael had pushed me so hard that I was sent back into time. 

My hand instinctively went to the back of my head, expecting to feel something, perhaps pain, blood, anything. I felt nothing, only smooth skin.

A shaky breath escaped me. “I died…” The words sounded foreign out loud, but it was true. I know that I died, because how much can one imagine life slipping out of their body?

You don’t hallucinate the weight of betrayal like that. But then again, I was back. 

“I’m back.”

The realization settled slowly, like dust after chaos. As much as it didn't make sense, it was coming together and I was accepting it. 

The weirdest part was seeing a dead man alive and well. Ethan Adams was with me, alive, talking, smiling. He drove me home.

The memory of him laughing in the car replayed in my head, and something twisted painfully in my chest. He wasn’t supposed to be alive, but he was. And it had to be for a reason. 

I sighed, exhaustion creeping in. I walked into the kitchen and went to the fridge. 

“I might as well feed my stomach if I'm going to be in this reality.” I said to myself. 

I grabbed leftover spaghetti Bolognese and shrugged. Before Michael, I had more motivation and life, which was why I immediately found a container of fried chicken. I smiled, and took a few pieces and put it in the microwave. 

While the meal warmed up, I walked around the kitchen, opening and shutting drawers and cabinets, taking in what I had. 

The timer went off, and I took my meal out. Just as I sat down to eat, my phone rang. The sound startled me and I cursed silently. 

I found my bag by the door, just as I left it and opened it, taking out the phone. The name flashing on the screen was Susan, I froze at the sight. 

Susan and I met in college, in the library and somehow, we already bonded by the end of the day. We were so similar in so many things, yet different. We talked about her love for dark romance and my love for non-dark romance. We went to my favourite bistro, and to her favourite bar. By the end of the day, we were throwing drunken “I love you”s. 

The phone stopped ringing, the screen going blank. I sighed in relief, only for the screen to light up with her text message. 

‘Are you home? I'm bringing ice cream!’ 

I shut my eyes in slight anger. Was I ready to face someone who betrayed me in another timeline? Or someone who would betray me in this timeline if I didn't change things? 

Then again, she didn't know it. At the moment, she was still my best friend, the one I'd always loved before the betrayal. So, I replied to her text. 

‘Yay, ice cream! I'm home!’ 

I went back to my meal and decided to use the time left to remember what we were like in 2013. The memories didn't come difficult, they came easily, like I was only trying to remember what I did an hour ago. Too natural. 

I paused, fork in my mouth. What if my memories were gradually erased and I only had those from up until 2013? How would I stop history from repeating itself?

I pushed myself up and speed walked into my room. My eyes located the wall I had dedicated to sticky notes. Sticky notes laid on the table beside the wall, I walked over and tore one out, picking up a random pen. Taking a deep breath, I wrote down something that would definitely push me to not let history repeat itself. 

After Susan left, I'd take out a notebook and write

everything that I needed to know about 2023 and coming back in time.