Chapter One: The Loop

Am I dreaming… or is this heaven? I thought I died. I know I died. I remember the coldness that settled in my chest like a final breath. The sting of betrayal. The flash of steel. The warmth of my own blood pooling beneath me, seeping into my favorite cream blouse — the one Diane said brought out my eyes.

Diane. She was the last face I saw. The same one who’s calling my name now.

"Emma... Emma..."

At first, I thought it’s an echo. A cruel trick of memory. Then her voice grows louder, cutting through the dense fog in my head.

“Emma! Get up, we’re going to be late for the interview!”

My eyes fly open. The ceiling. The off-white cracks. The gentle hum of the standing fan in the corner. It’s all… familiar. Too familiar.

I sit up slowly, my breath shallow. The blanket falls away from my body. I look down at my hands steady, warm, alive. Alive?

As I sit up in bed, memories flood my mind like a tidal wave. I remembered the night I died, the feeling of the blade piercing my skin, the sound of Diane's voice whispering in my ear. I remembered the pain, the fear, the sense of betrayal. But I also remembered the moments leading up to that night, the laughter, the tears, the fights. I remembered the way Robert smiled at Diane, the way Diane looked at me with a mixture of envy and hatred. I remembered the way I felt, like I was walking on eggshells, never knowing when the other shoe would drop.

I remembered the way Diane would make snide comments about my clothes, my hair, my makeup. I remembered the way Robert would flirt with me in front of Diane, making her seethe with jealousy. I remembered the way I tried to navigate their toxic dynamic, never knowing how to please both of them.

But most of all, I remembered the night it all came crashing down. The night Diane stabbed me, the night I died.

I shoot a glance around the room. My vision adjusts quickly, and everything registers with terrifying precision. The half-empty perfume bottle on the dresser. My broken phone charger coiled beside my pillow. The small dent in the wall where I once threw a mug in frustration. This is my room. This is our apartment. I’m back. But how?

I swing my legs off the bed, my heart pounding. Everything feels too real to be a dream, too detailed to be imagined. Then Diane’s voice again.

“Emma?”

I freeze. No. Not her. Not now. Not again.

I inhale sharply, then turn my head toward the door. She peeks in her hair perfectly curled, her lips glossed in the same peachy tone she always wore to impress. Her eyes scan me, then narrow.

“We don’t have time for drama today, Emma. We have that interview, remember?”

I stare at her, unable to respond. My throat tightens. She looks exactly the same. But the memory of her face twisted in rage, of her hands soaked in blood, crashes into me like a tidal wave.

Diane, the girl I called my sister. The girl who laughed with me over tubs of ice cream at midnight. The girl who… murdered me.

“What’s today’s date?” I ask suddenly, my voice cracked and dry.

She blinks. “What?”

I stand, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over me, but I force myself to remain upright. “The date, Diane. Please. What’s today’s date?”

She sighs, clearly annoyed. “June 5th.”

My knees almost buckle. June 5th. No. This… this was the day it all started to spiral.

I shake my head slowly. “June 5th of what year?”

Diane rolls her eyes. “2022. Obviously. Are you okay?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because everything inside me is screaming. The last time I was aware of time, it was 2025. I remember being twenty-five. I remember running no, crawling out of that house. Blood soaking my chest. Rain mixed with my tears. Now I’m twenty-two again. My hands start to tremble.

“I… I don’t feel good,” I mumble, stepping away from her. “I think I’ll skip the interview.”

Diane frowns. “Seriously? Emma, we….”

“I said I’ll skip it!” I snap, more forcefully than I intend to.

She raises an eyebrow. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

She disappears down the hallway, and the sound of the front door closing behind her echoes like a gunshot. The silence that follows is deafening.

My breathing becomes ragged. My heart thuds wildly as I rush to the bathroom.

I flip the switch. The flickering bulb buzzes overhead. There, in the mirror, is a face I haven’t seen in years.

Mine……but younger.

My skin is smoother, untouched by the harsh stress of the last few years. My eyes are still big and hopeful, though panic now clouds them. My hair is longer. I cut it after Robert broke my heart the first time. But what draws my eyes next stills me completely.

A thin, pale line just below my collarbone. The scar. The same one from the blade that pierced me the night I died. I remember the exact moment it happened. Diane’s scream. My confusion. Her eyes not filled with concern but fury. The glint of the knife. The crack in her voice when she said,

“You always get everything. Robert, the position I've been working for for months everything.” I trace the scar slowly, my fingers trembling. This… this confirms it.

I died. I was murdered…..

But I’m back. Back in time. Back in this cursed apartment. I stumble backward and slump onto the floor, pressing my palms into the tiles as if grounding myself in reality.

What does this mean? How did I come back? Why now? I spend hours or maybe minutes, I can’t tell, curled up in silence, questioning my sanity.

Was it a second chance? A glitch in time? Divine mercy? A cruel trick? Flashes come back in waves. Robert’s betrayal. The way he looked at Diane when he thought I wasn't watching. How they both lied. Gaslit me. Used me.

Then the night everything ended. I remember the weight of my own body collapsing. The sound of thunder outside. Diane whispered something as I faded… “You were never meant to shine brighter than me.” I shiver.

It wasn’t just betrayal. It was planned. Premeditated. They wanted me gone. But I’m here. Why?

My phone lights up with a text from Diane. “I hope you’re not sulking. Pull yourself together before I get back.” I stare at it, then put the phone down, trembling.

No. I’m not sulking.

I’m processing.

This isn’t something anyone could be prepared for. How do you face the person who murdered you knowing they don’t know you know? How do you pretend nothing happened, while every nerve in your body screams, run?

I press a hand to my chest, just over the scar. The ache is still there, like a ghost. But so is something else. Resolve.

I stand. My legs are weak, but my spine is straighter. I glance at the mirror again. There’s still fear in my eyes. But there’s also fire.

I need time.

To observe.

To think.

To understand what this second chance means.

I can’t act on impulse…… not yet.

I need to be smart. Calculated. Because whatever brought me back… didn’t do it for nothing.

And this time…..,

I won’t waste it.