Chapter 32: The Day I Once Died

I woke before sunrise.

For several seconds, I didn't know why my heart was pounding.

Then I saw the date.

This was the day.

In my first life, I had swallowed the pills tonight.

I lay still and listened.

My mother was asleep in the next room.

A car passed outside.

The refrigerator hummed.

Nothing was happening.

Yet my body felt as though death were waiting somewhere in the apartment.

I got out of bed.

My mother found me sitting at the kitchen table at six.

She looked at my face and immediately understood.

“Today?”

I nodded.

She sat beside me.

“Do you want to stay home?”

I considered it.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“But can you drive me?”

“Of course.”

At school, everything looked painfully ordinary.

Students complained about homework.

Someone dropped a stack of books.

The basketball team was arguing about practice.

I walked past the desk that had once been vandalized.

It belonged to another student now.

No words written across it.

No black marker.

During first period, I couldn't concentrate.

Mrs. Hart noticed.

She approached quietly.

“Do you need to step out?”

Months ago, I would have heard pity.

Today, I heard an offer.

“Yes.”

I went to Dr. Patel.

I had already told her that the date carried meaning connected to a traumatic memory, though not every supernatural detail.

She didn't ask me to explain it again.

“What does your body think is going to happen today?”

“That I won't make it to tomorrow.”

“And what evidence do you have right now?”

I looked around.

“I'm safe.”

“Your mother?”

“Safe.”

“Any current threats?”

“No.”

“Then today may feel dangerous without being dangerous.”

I breathed slowly.

That helped.

At lunch, Talia shoved a cupcake toward me.

“Why?”

“You look miserable.”

“Excellent diagnostic method.”

“Eat it.”

I did.

Greer passed our table.

She stopped.

“You okay?”

The question surprised me.

“Yeah.”

She nodded and continued.

She had no idea what today meant.

Maybe that was better.

After school, my mother was waiting at the gate.

In my first life, this was where Mason and the others had cornered me.

I stopped before crossing through.

My mother didn't rush me.

I looked at the pavement.

I could almost hear the old laughter.

Slut.

Go die.

Then a group of younger students ran past, arguing about a video game.

The memory broke.

I stepped through the gate.

Nothing happened.

My mother took my hand.

We went home.

At seven, she ordered my favorite food.

At eight, we watched a terrible comedy.

At nine, my hands started shaking.

That had been around the time I opened the medicine cabinet.

My mother noticed.

Without saying anything dramatic, she moved closer.

“Want tea?”

“Yes.”

At nine-thirty, I stood in the bathroom.

The cabinet was in front of me.

Inside were ordinary medicines.

Painkillers.

Bandages.

Cold tablets.

My mother's prescription bottle.

I stared at it.

Then I closed the cabinet.

I wasn't the girl counting pills anymore.

I returned to the living room.

At ten, I told my mother everything I remembered about my final hour.

She cried.

So did I.

We didn't hide from it.

At eleven, we sat on the balcony wrapped in blankets.

“What time?” she asked.

“I don't know exactly.”

“Then we'll stay awake until tomorrow.”

I laughed through tears.

“You have work.”

“I can survive one tired day.”

Midnight approached.

11:57.

11:58.

My heart hammered.

11:59.

My mother squeezed my hand.

The clock changed.

12:00.

Tomorrow.

I stared at the numbers.

Nothing supernatural happened.

No flash of light.

No voice.

No sign from the universe.

I was simply alive.

I began sobbing.

My mother held me.

“You made it,” she whispered.

“We made it.”

She cried harder.

Somewhere in another version of this night, she had been about to lose me.

Then she had lost herself.

Here, we sat together under an ugly blanket while traffic hummed below.

Life had never looked more beautiful.

The next morning, I was exhausted.

My mother burned toast.

I complained.

She told me to make my own breakfast.

I laughed.

Ordinary.

Again.

At school, I opened my locker.

A small envelope fell out.

My body tensed automatically.

Then I saw the handwriting.

Greer.

Inside was one card.

“I heard from Dr. Patel that yesterday was difficult. I don't know why, and I won't ask. I'm glad you're here today.”

I stood very still.

Then I put the card in my bag.

I wasn't ready to call Greer a friend.

Maybe I never would.

But the girl whose actions once helped push me toward death had written that she was glad I was alive.

The universe had a strange sense of symmetry.

I saved the relevant records and left the originals untouched. By now, preserving evidence had become routine rather than frightening.

I closed my locker.

Today was a day I had never lived before.

Every hour from now on was new.