"What? Because he was smoking?!" I shouted, sinking onto the couch. My eyes drifted over the old newspaper in my hand before I tossed it onto the coffee table.

"Yeah." My mom's voice was soft as she crossed the room, holding a cup of tea. A frown settled on her face as memories seemed to stir. "Poor boy. He had so much ahead of him." She sat down next to me, picking up the worn, torn newspaper with her free hand. "He was going to be a singer, you know. He was quite talented."

I frowned, her words settling heavily on me. Even though it happened years ago, the sadness still felt fresh—especially since I was only hearing about it just now.

My gaze shifted to the box of my mom's high school keepsakes. This day wasn't supposed to end with such a random, heartbreaking discovery from her past.

I had waited until the last minute to start my project on the early 2000s for school. Figuring it would be easier to rummage through my mom's old things considering she was in high school during that period, I went up to the attic. That's when I found this newspaper. I lifted it up again, reading the headline once more: "St. Joseph's Secondary School Student, Jake Lee, Stabbed at 16."

I studied the grainy photo of him, then turned to my mom. "He was really handsome."

She blinked in surprise, then smiled warmly. "That he was. So popular with the girls." She paused for a moment, her eyes distant, and sighed. "But even handsome, popular boys, can have enemies."

There was a heaviness in her voice that made her words feel almost hollow, yet laced with some sad truth. I couldn't fully grasp it. How could anyone hate him so much they'd want him dead? It seemed impossible. Sure, having enemies is part of life, especially in high school, but that kind of hate—enough to end someone's life—was beyond anything I could understand.

Apparently, this story had been huge back then, making all the headlines. Afterward, schools tightened their security, trying to prevent another tragedy like this from happening.

"Did they ever find out who stabbed him?" I asked, curiosity gnawing at me.

Nowhere in the article did it say the attacker had been caught. I couldn't wrap my head around how someone could just sneak onto school grounds with a knife—and get away with it.

My mom's expression grew distant. She took a sip of her tea, then lowered the cup to her lap, staring straight ahead. "That, my dear..." she said softly, her words trailing off. "Remains a mystery to this day."

I let out a slight gasp. This boy... he was so young. He had so much ahead of him, and yet, no one had ever received justice for his death.

"Did you suspect anyone back then?" I asked again, still consumed by curiosity. My mom had gone to school with him. Surely she must have been suspicious of some of her classmates. Anyone who would have been involved in the murder.

She let out a small, dry chuckle and set her cup down, meeting my gaze. "Don't dwell too much on the past." Her tone was lighter, but there was an edge to it. She grabbed the newspaper and, without hesitation, crumpled it in her hands. "I don't even know why I kept this piece of trash all these years."

My eyes widened slightly. The tension in her voice was unmistakable—she clearly didn't want to talk about it anymore. But I couldn't help myself. My mom was usually an open book, always sharing stories with me, but she had never once talked about her high school years. Why now, when I was finally starting to learn more, was she shutting me down?

"You should just focus on your project." she said firmly, clearing the table without looking back at me.

I slumped deeper into the couch, pouting as I whined. "But, Mom!"

"No buts." Her tone cut through my protest like a knife. "You need to start taking school more seriously, young lady."

I sighed and sat up, muttering under my breath. "Fine..."

Deep down, I knew she was right. I had a bad habit of leaving my projects and assignments until the last minute, always getting distracted by something else. But I owed it to her. After everything she'd done for me, raising me alone, I needed to step up. The least I could do was study hard, get good grades, and make it into a decent college.

I lay back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes drift to the same ticking clock on the wall. I groan and roll my eyes. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound drills into my thoughts, louder with each passing second. The clock doesn't even match the furniture. It's big, old, and frankly, a little creepy.

"Where did you even get this clock?" I groaned, my irritation seeping into my voice. My mom knew how much I hated that thing, though I couldn't explain why exactly. Something about it just set me on edge.

She paused, glancing up at the clock before offering a small, almost forced smile as she looked back at me. "It was a gift. It's not polite to reject gifts, okay dear?"

There was an underlying tension in her words, a firmness I wasn't expecting. It wasn't the first time we'd had this conversation, but her reaction was sharper than usual. I rolled my eyes. "Even gifts can find a nice spot in the attic." I muttered. "It doesn't have to sit out here, staring at us!"

My Mom froze for a moment, lifting herself from the coffee table. She shot me one of those mom glares—the kind that sends a chill through your spine. The kind that says everything without a single word. It only lasted a few seconds, but my heart pounded. She took a deep breath before speaking, her voice low and firm. "That clock is staying where it is."

I sighed, getting up from the couch, determined to push her buttons a little more. I stepped onto the cushion, reaching out toward the clock. "Fine, but can I just—"

"DON'T TOUCH IT!" Her scream sliced through the air, and I froze, my hand inches away from the clock. My whole body tensed as I pulled back, feeling a wave of anxious energy radiating from her. I swallowed hard as I stepped off the couch and turned towards her, my voice small. "S-sorry."

She stood there, silent, her breath shaky as she tried to calm herself. After what felt like forever, she finally spoke, her tone cold and clipped. "Good." She grabbed her purse and adjusted her blazer, her movements mechanical. "I'm going to the shops for a bit. Behave yourself." She snatched her keys from the table, the jingle cutting through the tension in the room. As she reached the door, she turned back one more time, her eyes narrowing. "And don't touch that clock."

The door clicked shut behind her, and I collapsed back onto the couch with a frustrated groan. What was the big deal anyway? It's just a clock. An ugly, annoying clock. If she likes it so much, she should just put it in her own room.

I glanced at the crumpled newspaper on the table that my mom had failed to throw away. Reaching for it, I uncrumpled the already worn paper, smoothing out the wrinkles as best I could. The picture of the murder victim stared back at me through the creases.

He died at the same age I am now. Sixteen. Barely a life lived. It was 2002, and my mom had been 16 then too. I wondered just how close she was to Jake Lee. If he was going to be a musician, a bright future had been stolen from him by someone cruel, heartless. The whole headline felt strange, surreal—stabbed for smoking. What kind of world was 2002 that smoking would get you killed? It didn't add up. There had to be more to the story. But this paper, yellowed and fragile, presented it as a cold, hard fact. I couldn't shake the feeling that the truth was buried deeper than that.

Maybe it wasn't even a classmate. Maybe someone from outside the school had snuck in. That's the only theory I can consider. It made more sense than imagining a peer taking things that far.

I glanced at the calendar. The year is 2030. Jake Lee would have been 44 by now, the same age as my mom. His entire life, stolen. "Jake Lee..." I whispered aloud, feeling strange even saying his name. He seemed like a distant, almost unreal figure—yet somehow, the name carried a strange allure, as if I'd known him...

I suddenly caught myself, bewildered. What the hell am I doing? This was a man who'd died nearly three decades ago. I rolled my eyes, crumpling the paper again and setting it down where it had been. What good is dwelling on my mom's past? Thinking about a guy I'd never met, who hadn't even lived to see adulthood.

I sighed and turned to my laptop, the blank document waiting for me. I started typing: the title, date, and a few basic details for the project. I needed to focus on the 2000s part of my assignment. But as I typed, the ticking of the clock kept invading my thoughts, louder than ever. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound scraped against my brain, pausing my fingers mid-sentence.

I looked around cautiously. "Mom's usually at the shops for a while..." I muttered to myself. Standing on the couch, I stared closely at the clock, its face mocking me. "Maybe I'll just turn it off for now."

Slowly, I reached out, my finger brushing the button on top, but the moment I made contact, a sharp shock surged through me, accompanied by a static noise. "Ow!" I pulled my hand back. "What the hell?"

But that didn't stop me. It was just an old clock. Of course, it would shock me. I reached out again, determined this time, refusing to pull away at the next jolt. My finger pressed down on the button, ignoring the small, electric stings. I pushed it down slowly, bracing myself—and then, finally, the ticking stopped. After sixteen long years of living with that constant, grating sound, it was over. I giggled, almost disbelieving. I had faint memories of being a baby, crying from that same obnoxious ticking.

Relief washed over me as I pulled my hand away, but... something felt off. I blinked, noticing a strange white light beginning to surround the clock, growing brighter and larger by the second. "What the..." I leaned in, curiosity taking over, but then the light exploded outward, nearly blinding me.

I stumbled back, disoriented. The ticking returned, but this time it was different—deafening, like it was drilling into my skull. I clutched my head, groaning in pain, as I lost my footing and fell back onto the couch. The light was so bright, my eyes squeezed shut, and the pounding in my head felt unbearable. The ticking grew louder, splitting my thoughts in half, and the world around me seemed to spin out of control.

_____

Everything suddenly stops. The couch feels hard beneath me, and I begin to hear muffled noises. That's strange... I'm home alone. Why does it sound like multiple conversations are happening all at once?

"Hey! Are you okay?" a random voice called out.

I slowly open my eyes, groaning as pain pulses through my head.

As my thoughts begin to clear, I gasp loudly, taking in my surroundings. This isn't my family room couch.

I'm sitting on a hard ground, surrounded by strangers.

"Do you feel all right?" One of the girls asked, while another bends down, hovering over me. "Yeah, you got hit with that baseball pretty hard."

What the...hell?

I spring up from the ground, wincing as I touch my throbbing forehead. "I was... hit?"

"Yeah, it went straight at you." another girl confirms.

What the hell is happening? I groan and rub my forehead, my mind racing. Looking down at myself, I freeze. "Why am I in a school girl uniform?!"

My breathing becomes ragged. Is this a dream? How can it feel so real? One moment I was on my couch, and now I'm here, in some unfamiliar place, with an unfamiliar view. This doesn't even look like my neighborhood.

One of the girls laughed. "Probably because you're a school girl?" She leans forward, examining the bruise on my forehead. "Were you really hit that hard?"

I attempt at catching my breath as I look at the girls, my uniform, and then around at everyone else. The ringing in my ears intensifies. This isn't just any school uniform; it's a specific one.

This isn't my uniform. My school doesn't even require uniforms. My breath catches in my throat as I try to stand steady. "Where... where am I?"

The girls exchange glances, looking at me as if I've suffered serious brain damage. One girl speaks up awkwardly. "At the gates of St. Joseph High."

My gaze stretches in disbelief, a gasp escaping my lips. I can't even comprehend what she just said. As I look around, the realization hits me. It's strange really.

The time... everything feels wrong. Not a single person is glued to their phone in sight. The trends, the atmosphere—they're all off. The constant chatter among peers is overwhelming. And are those flip phones?

I glance down, attempting to balance my nerves as I press a hand against my chest before looking back up at the girls again. I don't want to believe it, suspecting my worst fears, but I have to ask. "What... w-what..." I stammer, looking between them. "What... year is it?"

I gulp deeply, bracing myself for the answer. The girls glance around at each other before one of them looks up at me, smiling awkwardly. "It's the year 2002, silly."

I stagger back, the wind picking up and whipping through my hair. This can't be real. The sounds around me become muffled. I can't think clearly anymore. This is truly my worst fear come true. I can't even stand without a shiver in my legs as I become weak in the knees.

I instantly sprint through the group of girls without another annoying thought, ignoring the one who shouts, "Hey!" But I don't stop.

I look up at the gates ahead. The entrance for St. Joseph High. I've seen it in the newspaper. Is this really happening? Is it truly not a dream if it feels so real?

Weird looks follow me as people stare, bewildered by my frantic rush. I don't care. I charge onto the school grounds, bursting into the hallway. I finally catch my breath as I look forward, stopping in my tracks immediately. There's no way...

My eyes widen in slow motion, blinking slowly. The sound of footsteps echoing harshly in my ears, each one punctuated by my own labored breaths.

A guitar slung over his back, earphones in his ears, hands casually tucked into his pockets. His jet-black hair falls perfectly over his forehead as he walks this way.

It's really him.

Jake Lee.

I don't know how I got here, and I'm still not certain if this is reality or just some strange fantasy. All I know is that the man walking ahead of me is the Jake Lee—the one who was murdered in 2002. I'm sure of it. I've stared at his picture enough times not to miss him.

But here he is... alive and well.

As he walks by, I feel this urge to say something—anything. But the words tangle in my throat, refusing to come out. I step forward, almost ready to speak, but he brushes past me without a single glance, his gaze fixed somewhere else. I turn, watching him drift away, his guitar strapped to his back, taking up most of my view. A part of me wants to think he's just full of himself, but I know he doesn't know me. I take a steadying breath and let it go, just watching as he disappears down the hallway.

When I turn back, I notice the girls around my sight, huddled together, whispering and giggling. It's clearly about Jake. Mom was right when she said he had a way with the ladies, and seeing him firsthand, I believe her without question.

Then it hits me: if this is just a dream, I don't want to wake up with regrets. I glance back down the hall where he vanished and start running—not as fast as I want to, but fast enough. After all, this is still a school, and I'm pretty sure the same rules apply here in 2002.

As soon as I reach the corner, I spot him in the distance, just a few strides away. I'm about to take a step forward when the bell rings, slicing through the air with a jarring screech. I wince, covering my ears, but when I look up again, he's slipping into a classroom. No... no. I have to follow him. I have to hear his voice, just once.

"No regrets." Is what keeps repeating in my mind over & over again.

Up until now, Jake Lee has only been a mystery to me—someone from old newspaper clippings, a face captured in grainy photos. And since technology wasn't what it is today back in 2002, there's barely any information about him in the future. If he'd existed in the age of iPhones and social media, he surely would've been everywhere given his popularity. But now, I only have this fleeting chance to really see him.

I rush into the classroom after him, barely hesitating as I step inside. The atmosphere is instantly different here, crowded and buzzing with voices. Students are everywhere, talking, laughing, standing around—not a single one in their seat. I glance toward Jake, who's off to one side, keeping to himself as he slings his guitar off his back and settles on a desk. I slip through the crowd, weaving my way between groups until I'm right behind him, sliding into the desk just out of his line of sight. From here, I can see him clearly—his posture, the way he holds his guitar to the side. I'm so close it feels surreal. But I can't ignore the heavy thought creeping into my mind: he's going to die.

I frown at the thought.

It feels like i'm reading a novel, right on the page before the tragedy. The irony is bitter, almost unbearable.

Suddenly, the classroom falls silent, and the students quickly scramble back to their seats as the teacher strides in. "Good morning, everyone. I hope you all read chapters 67 through 93 last night."

The class groans as they pull out their textbooks. I glance around, my confusion growing. Reaching into the desk, I pull out an old, worn, spare book, feeling its unexpected weight. Our textbooks have never been this heavy over in 2030.

"Now, if I could have a volunteer to explain chap—oh... hello?"

The teacher's voice falters as footsteps approach my desk. I look up and realize everyone is staring at me. She stops, crossing her arms. "I don't remember you... and I remember all my students."

A slight cough escapes me as I fumble for words, glancing around at the sea of eyes pinned on me. The silence is unnerving. I need to say something—anything—to break this tension. In a flash, I jump up from my desk, the chair scraping back with a loud, awkward screech as I straighten up like a sergeant on duty.

"My name is Juno Maye, ma'am! I'm a new student, ma'am!"

A ripple of chuckles spreads through the room as the teacher raises an eyebrow, momentarily stunned. She takes a breath, then sighs, shaking her head. "A new student, huh? Funny, the office didn't bother to tell me." She waves her hand dismissively, turning back toward the front of the class. "Fine. Just... follow along with the rest of the class."

I glance around the room, forcing a quick, awkward smile at the curious faces still turned my way before I bow slightly and settle into my seat. Then I notice Jake staring, his gaze fixed on me, almost as if he's sizing me up. I'm close enough to see the details of his face, the intensity in his eyes. My heart skips. He seems to catch himself and looks away, but the moment hangs in the air, strange and electric. Maybe my little show was too much, though I almost topped it off with a salute and another "Yes, ma'am!"

Taking a breath, I focus on the heavy textbook in front of me. If this really is a dream, I could wake up now. I came face-to-face with Jake Lee—that's more than enough for one lifetime. I have nothing else to remain in this period for.

"You're late." the teacher suddenly speaks sharply, and my gaze shifts to the door.

A girl stands there, her blonde curls wild and unkempt. She's wearing a really large sweater atop of her uniform, its sleeves long enough to cover her hands completely, though I can see her fingers nervously fidgeting beneath the fabric. She avoids eye contact with the teacher—and the entire class, really—her eyes darting down as she edges forward.

I squint, studying her hair. The roots specifically and, before I can even stop myself, I mutter under my breath. "She's not a natural blonde."

Every head in the room turns toward me, and I instantly feel the heat rise in my cheeks. My eyes dart to all the faces around me, and I force a neutral expression, lifting up the textbook in view as I pretend to be deeply engrossed in it. I really need to learn to keep my mouth shut. I still don't know if this is reality or some bizarre dream, so the last thing I should be doing is drawing any attention to myself.

Still, I sneak another glance at the girl. I know she's not a natural blonde; the darker roots give it away, and I've picked up a lot of hair knowledge from my mom, who's a hairstylist. I've learned a thing or two from her.

A small, involuntary smirk crosses my face as I lean back, a bit too pleased with my observation.

"S-sorry... t-the b-bus was de-delayed..." she says really softly, her voice barely audible but strained with nerves. Watching her struggle is almost painful. The teacher sighs, clearly annoyed, and turns towards the board as she picks up a piece of chalk. "Whatever, Miss Romy Lynn. Just take a seat."

The name jolts me upright. I blink slowly, my eyes fixed on her face. I feel time stopping as the details suddenly sharpen. Could it be...?

Mom?

Without thinking, I spring up, my chair scraping against the floor just like before, loud enough to make everyone turn and stare—again, including the teacher, my mother...and Jake Lee. I freeze, the weight of their stares pressing in on me. I probably look so stupid right now.

I put on a forceful smile as I take in the scene. "Uh... sorry, leg cramp."

The teacher narrows her eyes, but everyone eventually turns back to their books, and I slump back into my seat, keeping my gaze firmly down. Romy—my mom?—heads to her seat, glancing briefly in my direction before looking away.

For a moment, I just sit there, stunned, my heart pounding. This isn't just some chance meeting with a long-dead rock star. This is Mom, and she has no idea who I am.

"I have a feeling... a lot of distractions will be taking place this semester." The teacher's voice is firm, and although she's facing the board, it's clear those words were meant for me. I shift in my seat, shielding myself with my hand, hoping the last of the stares have finally died down.

Romy settles into the seat beside me. It's the corner right by the window. I risk a quick, subtle glance her way, but she catches me instantly. I snap my gaze forward, heart pounding.

It definately has to be her—my mom. "Lynn" is her maiden name before she married my dad, giving me the name "Maye" But she looks so different. I'd never imagined her as a blonde; no wonder I didn't recognize her at first. I had no idea she was blonde at one point. And yet, I think with a pout, she wouldn't let me bleach my own hair when I desperately begged. Hypocrite.

But then again, she's never said a word about her high school days—not even a single story, even though she has endless tales from her early adult life to tell. And as far as I know, she doesn't even have any high school pictures. This whole scene feels like stepping into a hidden chapter of her life.

If this is real, I need to keep my distance. Talking to her could mess things up in ways I can't even imagine. Still... why would she keep her high school years such a secret?

And then there's Jake. I don't think Mom ever mentioned being in the same class as him. I'd assumed they were just schoolmates, part of the same small-town world but not close. But now, seeing them together here in the same class, a mystery starts to unfold. Could she have been closer to him than I thought? than she led on?

•

•

•

The moment the bell rings, I bolt for the door, feeling like I'm moving faster than the speed of light. Normally, I'd sneak out my phone to pass the time, but all I have is this old flip phone I found in the pocket of my skirt. How do you even use these things? I think back to my quiet Saturday I spent lounging on the couch, surrounded by textbook and pending assignments. Now, I've woken up in a school, in a different era. I couldn't even enjoy my weekend properly. It's feeling less and less like a dream as the seconds pass.

Leaning against the window sitting on a wall in the hall, I scan my surroundings and spot Jake. He's filling up a water bottle at the school fountain, that same oversized guitar still slung over his back like a second skin. At this rate, it's practically a backpack.

I realize my wish is actually still unfulfilled. I need to hear him speak at least once before this "dream" slips away. What do I have to lose? Gathering my courage, I stroll over to him, leaning against the fountain wall.

He looks up, confusion etched across his face. I can't waste this moment—I have to say something, anything, to draw him in. I want to make a great first impression, but what comes out of my mouth is utterly ridiculous. "Hey. Come here often?"

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I stop smiling and stare blankly at him. What the hell was I thinking? Why would I say something so stupid and random? I must have sounded like an idiot.

Jake just blinks at me, then glances behind him, as if searching for an escape route. He shakes his head, looking bewildered, before closing the cap of his water bottle. Without another word, he picks up his bag from the floor and walks away.

I stand there, mortified, heat flooding my cheeks. I had a chance to make a memorable first impression, and instead, I blew it. Now he probably thinks I'm just some weirdo, especially after my "distractions" in class. What a disaster.

I let out a heavy sigh, leaning against the wall as I look up at the ceiling, trying to gather my thoughts.

"Hey. You Juno?" A random boy approaches, breaking my moment of solitude. I lift my head off the wall and meet his gaze. "Um... yeah?"

He giggles, a sound reminiscent of a child, and even lets out a snort before dramatically putting his arm into a salute. "Okay, ma'am!"

I'm completely taken aback. I didn't even perform that salute in class, and yet my awkward introduction has somehow made its way around the school? He must have heard about it from one of the other classmates.

I narrow my eyes, annoyance creeping in. "Are you a sergeant? a soldier? in the army? This is pretty weird if you're not."

His expression shifts to one of embarrassment, and I can't help but suppress a laugh at his flustered reaction. I've always been good at throwing serious humor back at those who try to embarrass me, and it seems that skill translates just fine in 2002 as well.

"I... well, uh..." he stammers, but before he can finish, a melody drifts through the air, pulling my attention away. I glance over and see a group of female students gathered around a glass enclosure, their faces lit with excitement.

My heart quickens as I follow the sound, curiosity leading me closer. The music is captivating—beautiful. I stop just short of the glass and peer inside.

What I see takes my breath away. It's a built-in garden, square-shaped and surrounded by glass, filled with greenery that almost seems to glow. In the center, there's a bench, and sitting on it is none other than Jake Lee. He plays the guitar effortlessly, his fingers dancing over the strings in perfect rhythm. The moment feels surreal; It feels like i'm staring at a celebrity, and my heart races as the music washes over me.

"Did you sign him up for the talent show like we planned?" one of the girls beside me asks, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Yeah, first thing in the morning." the other girl replies with a smirk. The first girl adds, "Good. He always refuses to sign up, but now he has to do it."

My eyes widen at their words. They're... forcing him? Jake must have his reasons for avoiding talent shows. But without his knowledge, they've already signed him up? The girls continue giggling, and I mutter under my breath from slight irritation, "Smells like biach in here."

Their laughter halts abruptly, and one of them turns to me, brows raised. "Excuse me?"

I avoid eye contact, focusing instead on Jake in the garden. "Oh, nothing. I just had a cough."

But they're not buying it. The girl on the left steps directly in front of me. "No, I could have sworn you called us bitches."

"Yeah, lady, we don't even know you." the girl on the right adds, clearly offended by my half-hearted jab.

I feel the need to defend myself. I won't let them twist my words. I will not take credit for an insult I didn't put out. I raise a finger in protest. "Oh no, no, no. I didn't say 'bitch,' I said 'biach!'"

They both gasp, exchanging incredulous glances, as if they're realizing that arguing with me is going to be a fruitless endeavor.

"Whatever. Let's go." The girl huffs, shooting me a glare as they walk past. I hear the other girl mutter "What the hell is a biach?" as they turn a corner.

That was... odd. If it were 2030, both sides would be engaged in a full-blown argument until one claimed victory but ended up in the principals office. At least, that's what I'm used to.

I let out a deep sigh and turn back to the glass window. My heart races as I scan the interior. "Huh... where did he...?" I notice his bag on the bench and his guitar leaning against it, but Jake is nowhere in sight. "That's... weird." I mumble to myself.

Determined to spot him, I step closer, still gazing through the glass. Suddenly, I bump into someone. It's a slight collision, but I nearly lose my balance. A hand catches me at my waist just in time, steadying me before I can fall. My eyes fall open in surprise & my lips part as I get pulled back up, realizing who I've come face to face with, time slowing to a crawl.

"Are you okay?"

I blink slowly, my mouth slightly agape. I can't believe this is happening. His hand grips me firmly, and my heart races, my face mere inches from his. I'm entranced by the depth of his gaze, unable to look away.

And his voice... it lingers in the air, resonating with a warmth that sends a thrill through me.

It's strange, really. Why was I so drawn to this boy in the first place? I didn't know him. I still don't, but now, here we are, face-to-face...and I feel like I want to.

People die all the time, but his death was different, somehow. I'd been more curious about him ever since I found that old newspaper among Mom's things in the attic. It's like...I wish I'd known him.

"Can I let go now?"

His voice snaps me back to reality. I'm still clinging to his hand as his free hand remains around my waist, completely forgetting to steady myself. Embarrassed, I shift my weight back to my feet. "Oh, uh...yeah...s-sorry."

I feel ridiculous. He's staring at me, head tilted slightly, as if he's trying to make sense of why I'm not looking away. I bet I look so foolish.

"Didn't expect to play catch today." he says, voice calm and low.

Heat floods my cheeks. Does he think I'm obsessed or something? My gaze is fixed on him, and for some reason, I can't break away. I was only curious, just curious about him, but now...

There's a flicker of a smirk on his lips, so subtle I almost miss it. He looks down at me through half-lidded eyes, considering our height difference. "You know," he murmurs. "Most people stare from a distance."

I cringe internally, feeling like I've somehow crossed an invisible line. Am I...being creepy? My mouth opens, scrambling for an explanation. "Well...y-you see—"

Before I can finish, he leans in, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath just brushing against my ear. "And usually," he whispers, his tone lazy, taunting. "They don't get this close."

My breath hitches, and I take a step back, face burning. Is he mocking me? His words carry that cool indifference that borders on arrogance, and it's starting to grate on me. Just who does he think he is?

"There was probably a reason he had enemies back then." I mutter under my breath while pouting, low enough that he won't catch it.

He glares down, his eyes narrowing. "What was that?" His tone is sharp, but his expression is just as unreadable as ever. I shake my head quickly. "Nothing."

With a slight lift of one eyebrow, he holds my gaze for a moment longer, then looks past me, adjusting his jacket. "That all, then?" His voice is flat, dismissive, like he's already lost interest. Before I can respond, he brushes past me, leaving me standing there, speechless.

I watch him walk away, feeling both mortified and...intrigued. Just what kind of person is he?

I glance through the glass wall into the room beside me, the one with the little garden built into the floor. His things are still there, scattered around—a notebook, his guitar propped against the bench. I sigh, the frustration twisting uncomfortably inside me, and turn away, walking down the empty hall.

I step outside, the school grounds are full of life—groups of people chatting, laughing, chasing each other. It's a scene I've never quite experienced like this. I tilt my head up toward the sky, murmuring to myself. "My dreams have never felt this detailed before."

The air is so real, the breeze on my skin, even the scent of damp earth beneath the grass. I can feel it all. Usually, dreams are a blur, images and moments slipping past in fragments. But here? I have solid thoughts, grounded senses. It's almost...real. This may actually be...

"Confidence is cute and all, but maybe stay in your lane."

The voice, harsh and dripping with disdain, cuts through my thoughts. It sounds like something straight out of a high school movie—sharp, biting, and full of that haughty, mean-girl tone. I turn slightly, just enough to hear without being seen.

"You should really try harder if you want people to notice a nobody like you." Another voice joins, shriller and equally cruel.

The words sting, even if they weren't aimed at me. The way they say it, how carelessly they toss out insults—it feels all too real, too brutal, like how bullying used to be back then, when people's reputations were destroyed with a single rumor.

I can't really intervine though. I'm not really here. I'm not a part of this place, not truly. This moment isn't mine to change.

I'm stepping off the front school steps when I hear another voice, faint but trembling.

"P-pl-please...j-j-just...leave m-me al-lone..."

I freeze. That voice—I'd know it anywhere. My heart starts pounding as I dart around the corner, barely able to breathe. I come to a halt, and there she is, just as I feared—my mom, younger and vulnerable, surrounded by a pack of girls with sneers on their faces.

"God, listening to you speak is making me want to rip out my ears!" snaps the ringleader, her voice dripping with contempt. She claps her hands over her ears dramatically, while another girl adds with a sneer, "Yeah, can't you just talk normally for once?"

There are five of them, towering over her, scowling, closing in over my mom.

My fists clench. Nobody gets to treat my mom like this. Normally, I'd let things go—I'm not supposed to cross paths with her here like I intended, after all—but seeing this? There's no way I can stand by and watch.

"HEY! BIACHES!" I shout, my voice ringing out loud enough to make them all turn. Without hesitating, I slip off my shoe and hurl it right at them, hitting one of the girls squarely.

They're stunned, gasping as their friend stumbles forward, rubbing the back of her head where my shoe struck her. One of them fixes me with a cold glare, hand on her hip. "Who do you think you are? This has nothing to do with you."

I roll my eyes, shaking off her glare. "Yeah, yeah, whatever." I step forward, my other shoe in hand, ready for whatever happens next.

I drop my bag, stretching out my arms and cracking my neck, my eyes locking onto theirs. They glance at my bag as it thuds onto the floor, then back at me, confusion flickering across their faces. Before they can even process what's happening, I launch forward at full speed.

I tackle the first girl, taking her to the ground and grabbing a fistful of her hair. Another one thinks she's got an opening from behind, but I swing my leg back, kicking her hard. The whole scene dissolves into pure chaos-a brawl where, despite their numbers, i'm winning. I spot one of the others trying to take a swing at me and lob my spare shoe at her, catching her square in the chest and knocking her back. All those karate classes I begged my mom to let me join only to spent half-asleep in? Turns out I actually learnt a few things.

"You vile little maniac creature demon monster thingy!" One of them screeches as I yank on her hair again, her insult so ridiculous I almost burst out laughing. Bullies from the early 2000s really are just like the movies-all bark & no bite.

The girls manage to land a few weak hits, enough to leave dirt smudges on my cheek & clothes, but it's nothing serious.

I keep swinging, kicking, and grabbing hair, my voice low but loud enough to hear. "Yeah? Well, this vile little maniac creature is cute too."

•

•

•

I find myself in the principal's office, my hair a wild mess and dirt smudged across my cheek and clothes. It appears so, my rough handling of the situation had earned me all the blame, as I'm the only one getting in trouble.

"Miss Maye, it's your first day here, and you've already stirred up some trouble?" The principal's voice carries a mix of disbelief and irritation as he settles behind his desk, preparing to lecture me. I roll my eyes & sit down on the chair in front of his desk.

"Throwing shoes and pulling hair?" He stares at me, dumbfounded, as if the mere idea of it is foreign.

"This isn't good for college applications, you know. " He continues, his tone shifting to one of disappointment. "I'm sorry, Miss Maye, but I have to impose some kind of punishment for this."

I lean back in the chair, crossing my arms and bracing myself for whatever lecture he's about to dish out. I've learned that arguing with authority figures gets you nowhere, but I couldn't just let those girls talk to my mom like that.

"I'm thinking three days of detention and...and..." He trails off, rifling through papers on his desk. His expression brightens as he finds what he's looking for. He holds up a sheet of paper, bringing it close to my face. "You have to sign up for the school talent show."

I glance at the paper, recognizing the talent show sign-up sheet. This is ridiculous. How can this possibly be considered a punishment? Normal consequences are a full week detention or community service, not this.

I look up at him, annoyance bubbling over. "Sir, this can hardly be considered a punishment."

The principal just gives me a creepy smile, sliding the paper down in front of me. "Too bad. Sign here." He taps the empty name slot eagerly.

When I look back up at him, it's clear he expects me to comply. His grin is wide, almost predatory, as he nods, waiting impatiently for me to sign. There's no way out of this, but why? Is joining the talent show really mandatory as a punishment?

I glance down at the sign-up sheet and see only three names listed. My gaze lands on the third one: "Jake Lee." I look up at the ceiling, lost in thought, muttering to myself, "Huh. Those girls earlier did say they signed him up..."

"What was that?" The principal leans in, curiosity piqued.

I snap out of my reverie and shake my head. "Nothing." Grabbing the pen, I scrawl my name beneath Jake's. It's just a talent show; I'll throw together something simple and call it "Talent."

Once I finish writing, I hand the sheet back to him, then bend down to retrieve my bag from the floor. "Am I done now?" I slip it over my shoulder just as the principal is distracted, still staring at the paper with that same creepy smile.

"Y-yeah, yeah, you can go." He says, waving me off with a hand, not fully focused on me. "And stay out of trouble." His eyes remain glued to the sign-up sheet.

What's the big deal about the talent show? Is it so unpopular that he has to find ways to force students to join?

I step out of the office, my irritation from the day only intensifying.

"T-t-thank you!"

I jump, startled, and stumble back. "Jesus! You scared me." My mom stands in front of me, fidgeting with her fingers, her eyes darting around. Was she just waiting out here for me?

I can't help but feel curious. Why is she like this? So shy and unable to make eye contact? This isn't the mom I know.

"It's no problem mo—" I start, almost slipping and calling her "Mom" but I clear my throat and begin again, forcing a soft, awkward smile. "It's no problem, Romy."

Calling a classmate the same age as me "Mom" is a terrifying and awkward thought, even if she is my actual mother.

I turn to walk away, my mind swirling with the strangeness of the day. I still don't know what to make of it all.

"I... I'm in your debt!" My mom suddenly shouts from behind me. I freeze, feeling the weight of her words. She was so different back in high school. Is this why she refuses to remember those days?

I pivot to face her. "N-no, it's fine, rea—"

"I want to owe you." She cuts me off, determination shining in her eyes. "You beat up those girls for me..." Her gaze drops, then rises back to meet mine.

She's not stuttering with me. I can't help but wonder why she stutters, but part of me thinks it has to do with not fitting in. Mom was just shy in high school; that's all.

I lean back slightly, offering a small smirk. "Well, beating them up is an overstatement—"

"No!" She interrupts me again, stepping closer. "You helped me when you didn't have to..." She trails off for a moment, then looks at me with renewed willpower and a hint of confidence. "Therefore... I am in your debt."

I really just acted on instinct to help her, a reflex born from knowing she's my mom in the future. If she were just a random girl, I probably would have tried to stay out of it. Now I'm facing three days of detention and a talent show punishment because of it.

"Okay then." I reply softly, a genuine smile breaking through. "You are in my debt." I glance back over my shoulder and then back at her, adjusting my bag. "I'll hold you to it."

With that, I turn and start walking away, disappearing around a corner. A pang of sadness washes over me. My mom's high school life must have been so hard. This is clearly not a dream. I didn't want to believe this outcome at first. I've always been into science fiction and resisted knowing what actually happened when I first arrived here this afternoon, but I'm back in the year 2006, all because of that damned clock. But why? What's my purpose here? Is it to help my mom have an easier high school life?

As I step into a completely empty & gloomy hallway, different from ghe rest, I suddenly hear the sound of paper crumpling repeatedly, echoing in a continuous loop. I can hear the papers hitting the floor every few seconds, accompanied by the scratch of a pen writing on paper before each throw. My curiosity piqued, I move forward, drawn closer to the noise.

Peeking around the corner while holding the wall for support, my eyes widen at the sight before me.

"It's Jake Lee..." I whisper under my breath.

He looks completely distraught, scratching his head as he scribbles words on a piece of paper, crumpling it, and tossing it aside before starting again. He doesn't look well, sitting against the wall, his legs pulled in, burying his face in his papers. My stomach churns at the sight.

The weight of his stress hangs in the air, and I can't shake the feeling that I've stumbled onto something significant.

"Fucking talent show." he mutters under his breath, his voice low but clear.