“You need to fix us,” the girl in the mirror hissed, voice cracking and doubled like it came from both the mirror and inside her head. “Fix us!”
Ava clawed at the grip, gasping, the ground beneath her feet vibrating with a shrill, high-pitched whine. Cracks spidered across the mirror as the reflection twisted and screamed again—“Fix us!”
With a final, violent jolt, Ava ripped herself free and stumbled backward, crashing into the edge of her desk. Her breath came in ragged bursts, chest heaving, throat burning where the phantom grip had just been.
The mirror settled. The reflection was gone, but the damage was already done.
She didn’t need confirmation anymore. The ache in her bones, the air in her lungs, the weight of her own skin—all of it told her what the mirror had screamed.
She wasn’t just in her past. She was trapped in it.
Her vision swam as she touched her face with trembling fingers, each breath a broken sob. Her hands scraped across acne and baby fat, her thumbs catching on the familiar ridges of old braces.
She clawed at it—at herself—desperate to peel away the version of her she had buried years ago.
“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “No, no, no.”
Above her bed, the glittery wall calendar declared the year with cruel confidence: 2010.
Her flip phone buzzed on the nightstand, its tiny screen blinking with a message: “You coming? I already missed the bus – Jenny.”
Ava’s knees buckled.
The air smelled of cheap perfume, the kind she’d worn every day at fifteen to feel grown-up, and strawberry shampoo she hadn’t touched in years.
“This isn’t real,” she said, shaking her head. “It can’t be real.”
But then, from downstairs, came a voice sharp enough to slice through any illusion.
“You’ll miss the bus again, Ava!”
Every step felt like she was dragging herself through molasses, her body stiff with dread as she pulled on the hoodie she hadn’t worn in over a decade. She turned to the mirror, holding her breath.
Maybe there’d be a glitch. A ripple. Something to prove this wasn’t real.
But there was nothing. Just the same girl she thought she’d buried—a ghost in her own skin. Round cheeks. Braced teeth. Haunted eyes.
Ava reached for the flip phone, its thick plastic body clunky in her hand, like a prop from a movie set. Still warm. Still real.
She forced her legs to move, trudging downstairs as if gravity had turned against her.
Her mom stood at the counter, pouring coffee into a chipped mug, scrolling on a Blackberry like it was still the height of technology. She hummed along to a song playing faintly on the kitchen radio—one Ava hadn’t heard since her sophomore year.
Ava opened her mouth to speak. To scream. To say anything. But what could she even say?
‘Hi Mom, I time-traveled into my own teenage nightmare. Please tell me how to escape.’
Before she could find the words, her mother glanced up, eyes flicking over her like nothing was wrong.
“Eat something,” she said casually, lifting her mug. “You always skip breakfast and end up sick.”
The words hit Ava like a punch to the gut. Too familiar. Too real. She had forgotten the exact phrasing, the casual concern wrapped in routine.
And now it was back. So was everything else.
The walk to the bus stop was torture disguised as normal. In her pocket, earbuds tangled themselves in knots, just like they always had—tiny rebellions against peace.
Then the bus screeched up, loud and angry. She froze for half a second, then stepped on.
The noise hit instantly.
Laughter, shouting, gum smacking. Someone blasted bass-heavy music through their hoodie pocket, shaking the metal walls. The air smelled like cheap perfume and breakfast sandwiches.
Ava stood in the aisle, eyes sweeping the seats like a soldier scanning a battlefield.
There they were. The same girls in the middle row. Lip gloss perfect, legs crossed, laughter sharp as blades. Their eyes slid right past her like she wasn’t worth seeing. Not even worth hating.
She swallowed hard and slid into a seat near the back of the bus, pressing herself against the window, hoping invisibility still worked like it used to. No one looked her way. No one cared. Just the way she wanted it.
When the bus finally jerked to a stop, she moved with the crowd, head down, steps quick. The building loomed ahead, familiar in all the wrong ways.
The halls smelled like floor cleaner and desperation. Lockers clanged open, someone shouted across the stairwell, and paper crunched underfoot like autumn leaves.
Ava walked slower than usual, trying to avoid the groups clustering like predator zones. The classrooms hadn’t changed. The smell of dry erase markers, too-strong perfume, and anxiety was still alive in the air.
Then it hit her—the whispers. Subtle at first. Just behind her, like breathing too close.
“She’s wearing that again?”
“How does she even squeeze into it?”
“That hoodie should be burned.”
Ava’s spine stiffened. She didn’t turn to look, she knew these voices. The same ones that followed her through sophomore year like shadows. And the laughter. The kind that made your skin want to disappear.
She pressed forward, her sneakers sticking to the waxed floor. Her palms were damp, her breath shallow. She hated that it still hurt like it had never stopped.
She reached her locker and stood there a moment too long, hand trembling at the dial. Combination? She hadn’t used this thing in years. She closed her eyes and waited for her fingers to remember.
Left. Right. Left. Click. The door creaked open.
Same dent. Same scratch. Same ugly sticker someone tried to peel off freshman year. Her locker hadn’t changed—not even after everything else had. The handle stuck like always. She yanked it open and stared inside: a messy pile of books, old doodles, and a wrinkled quiz with a C-minus circled in angry red.
A voice behind her sneered, “Still failing, huh?”
Ava didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. She just grabbed her books like the paper didn’t burn in her hand and slammed the locker shut. She wasn’t here to impress anyone. She just wanted to survive. But her heart thudded, too loud, like it was warning her—you remember this part.
“Hey, ignore her,” came a voice to her right—calm, not kind. Diana. Same girl from sophomore English. Always smiled. Never sat with her at lunch. Friendly, but not really a friend.
“You okay?” Diana asked, slinging her bag higher on her shoulder.
Ava gave a stiff nod, gripping her books tighter. “Fine.”
Diana shrugged. “It’s only the first period. Maybe the universe will go easy on us today.”
Ava forced a weak smile, though her chest was still tight. “Not holding my breath.”
Diana laughed and walked off, already waving at someone across the hall.
The moment Ava turned into the west wing hallway, the air shifted—thick with humidity, heavy with voices, and charged with the kind of tension you don’t forget, no matter how many years you try to outgrow it. Her breath caught, and before she could brace herself, there he was.
Jace Preston.
Leaning casually against his locker like time had never touched him. Tall, athletic, effortless in that maddening way that made people orbit around him without question. He was still too confident, too good-looking, and worse—he knew it.
The crowd around Jace hadn’t changed either. The same perfect smiles. The same echoing laughter. His kingdom, and he was still the untouchable prince.
Ava dropped her gaze and quickened her pace, praying to slip past unnoticed. But it was too late. His voice cut through the hallway like a blade.
“Didn’t think whales could walk that fast,” he muttered, voice low, smug.