29/11/2025
๐ก๐ผ๐๐ฒ๐บ-๐๐ผ๐ผ ๐ฎ.๐ฌ | ๐๐๐ ๐พ๐ก๐ค๐๐ ๐ฟ๐ค๐๐จ๐ฃโ๐ฉ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ฝ๐๐๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ง๐๐จ
โThe worst sound in the world is the click of my apartment door locking behind me. Itโs the sound of the day being officially, irrevocably over. Another one. Same as the last.
โI stand in silence, a thick, heavy thing broken only by the frantic, digital pulse of my alarm clock. Its red numbersโ11:11โmock me.
โ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ข ๐ธ๐ช๐ด๐ฉ, I thought. ๐๐ถ๐ต, ๐ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ง๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ธ๐ช๐ด๐ฉ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ.
โTwo years out of university, and my literature degree is a fossil. On my nightstand, my worn Robert Frost collection lies splayed open. My eyes catch the familiar, damning lines.
โ๐ ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฌ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ด๐ด ๐ต๐ณ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐บ,
โ๐๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ด ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ง๐ง๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ค๐ฆ.
โI snap the book shut. The words are a lie. I didn't take any road at all. I froze at the fork, and now the world has moved on without me.
โThe clock blinks to 11:12 PM.
โI remember my motherโs call, her voice carefully neutral, telling me my sister got into the graduate program Iโd once dreamed of. I made all the right noises, while my stomach shriveled into a cold, hard stone. I'm not jealous. I'm terrified of her momentum. It highlights my own absolute stillness.
โI fell onto my bed. 11:23 PM.
โ๐ ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ญ๐ฅ ๐จ๐ช๐ท๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฏ๐บ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ, I think, the words a silent, desperate scream in my skull, ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐ด๐ถ๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ. ๐๐ฐ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ข๐บ๐ด ๐ฃ๐ข๐ค๐ฌ.
โThe clock flickers.
โMy first thought is a dull, power surge. But it isn't that. The numbers don't blink. Theyโฆ dissolve.
โMy breath snags in my throat. I sit up slowly, my muscles tensing. The red LEDs lose their rigid shape, bleeding into each other like wet watercolors, swirling in a lazy, impossible vortex against the dark face of the clock. Itโs a liquid nightmare. I can only stare, my mind screaming that this is wrong, that plastic and light donโt bleed.
โTime stretches. A cold knot tightens in my stomach as the swirling red coalesces, the pixels snapping back into a new, solid, and horrifying formation.
โThey now read: 2:47 PM. OCT 15.
โMy breath hitches. October 15. The day of my final, disastrous thesis defense. The day my mind became a perfect, blank void. The day my path forked, and I stumbled down the one leading here.
โA coldness that has nothing to do with the air conditioning prickles my skin. This isn't a memory. It's a presence.
โ๐ ๐ฐ๐ถโ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ด๐ต๐ถ๐ค๐ฌ, a thought whispers, sleek cold, sliding into my mind like a shard of glass. ๐ ๐ฐ๐ถโ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฑ๐ข๐จ๐ฆ.
โMy heart is a frantic animal in my chest. This is it. My rewrite.
โI focus on the memory of that exam room, on my past self, paralyzed. I pour all my regret into a single, mental command.
Just speak.
โBut the power doesn't just change at that moment. It unfolds from it.
โThe silence in my apartment deepens, but it doesn't become the exam hall. It becomes something else entirely. The air grows warm, smelling of old books and fresh coffee. I am no longer on my bed. I am in a sun-drenched library, my fingers tracing the spine of a book. My book. With my name on it. The satisfaction is so profound it feels like a religious experience.
โThis is the rewrite. Not of one moment, but of my entire story.
โThe vision expands, layers upon layers. I am at a podium, applause washing over me, a physical warmth on my skin. I am in a warm, cluttered kitchen, not this sterile space, laughing with a woman whose face feels like home. A childโs drawing is taped to the refrigerator. This is the life I craved. Not just the success, but the texture of an existence fully inhabited. The joy is so acute it is painful. It is everything.
โAnd then, the other memories come. Not as fulfillment, but as contradiction.
โA searing, white-hot headache, as if my skull is splitting. The cascade begins. A memory of receiving that acclaim, but also a memory of the crushing debt from a failed business I started in another timeline. The memory of that womanโs laugh is overshadowed by the gut-wrenching grief of her leaving me in a different reality. The childโs laughter is replaced by the silence of a house where she never existed.
โ๐๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ ๐ค๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ช๐ค๐ฆ ๐ค๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฆ๐ด ๐ข ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ญ๐ฅ, the cold voice coos, now sounding amused. ๐ ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฏโ๐ต ๐จ๐ฆ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ค๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ๐จ๐ฆ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ๐ด. ๐ ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐จ๐ฆ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด. ๐ ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ธ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฃ๐ช๐ต ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ด๐ช๐ณ๐ฆ๐ด? ๐๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ช๐ด ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ด๐ช๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ด๐ต๐ด.
๐ ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐จ๐ฆ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ญ๐ช๐ท๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฎ ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ข๐ต ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ค๐ฆ.
โThe horror is no longer about a single failure. It is this catastrophic, simultaneous unraveling. I am Leo who succeeded, Leo who failed bigger, Leo who dropped out, Leo who died at nineteen. Their joys, their failures, their loves, their deathsโit is a tsunami of souls, and I am the shore they are breaking against. The beautiful life I was just shown is now just one thread in a tapestry of torment.
โI canโt breathe. I am being unmade.
โโStop!โ I scream, my voice raw and alien in the silent room.
โI stumble off the bed, my vision swimming with overlapping realities. With a final, desperate surge, I lunge for the clock, wrench it from the cord, and hurl it against the wall.
โIt hits with a dull crack.
โSilence.
โA deep, ordinary, but deafening silence.
โI stand there, panting. The memories are gone. The clock on the floor flickers. 11:24 PM.
โRelief, warm and dizzying, washes over me. A hallucination. A waking nightmare. I am okay. I am still here.
โI take a shaky step forward, a weak laugh bubbling in my throat. I bend down to pick up the clock.
โMy fingers brush against the plastic.
โAnd I feel it.
โA faint, familiar, and impossible chill. The distinct, dry-dust smell of chalk.
โMy gaze drifts to the fallen Robert Frost collection on the floor, knocked from the nightstand. It has fallen open. I pick it up, my hands trembling, needing the comfort of its original, simple lie.
โBut the words are wrong.
โMy blood freezes in my veins.
โThe familiar lines are gone. In their place, written in the same typeface, is a new, terrible verse. The final verdict on my attempted rewrite.
โโ๐ ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฌ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ด๐ด ๐ต๐ณ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐บ,
โ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ญ๐ฐ๐ค๐ฌ ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฏโ๐ต ๐ต๐ช๐ค๐ฌ ๐ฃ๐ข๐ค๐ฌ๐ธ๐ข๐ณ๐ฅ๐ด,โ
๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ด ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ง๐ง๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ค๐ฆ.
โWritten by: Federico Napiรฑas
โTemplate by: Gwyneth Panonce
