The library smelled like old coffee and printer toner. Ethan sat in his usual corner on the second floor, laptop open, notes scattered like a battlefield of highlighters and sticky tabs.
But his focus wasn't on the textbook in front of him.
It was on the game of chess unfolding across the table.
Not literal chess—mental chess.
Sophia had just sent him a Spotify playlist called "Existential Crisis but Make It Aesthetic." He was analyzing every track like it was a love letter in disguise.
Bon Iver, Mitski, Sufjan Stevens. Emotional damage in MP3 format.
He grinned.
She was communicating through music. That meant something.
In his past life, it had taken him almost a year to decode her taste in sound. But now, he had a head start—and a better EQ.
He clicked "play" on the first track and let it wash over him like a slow-moving tide.
His phone buzzed.
Owen: "Bro. I just got an internship offer from DynaCore. Should I take it?"
Ethan's smile faded.
DynaCore.
In his previous life, this moment had been a disaster in slow motion. Owen had been thrilled at first—prestige, pay, bragging rights. But within two months, the company would be caught in a massive data privacy scandal. Interns were scapegoated. Owen's name was dragged online. He dropped out the following semester.
Ethan took a deep breath. This was one of those butterfly moments. Tiny wings flapping now, storms forming later.
He texted back:
"No. Trust me. Take the summer coding camp instead. You'll meet someone who changes your life."
Owen: "You high?"
Ethan: "Yes. On foresight."
A pause.
Owen: "Okay. Weird. But...fine. I trust your vibe."
Ethan leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
One disaster averted.
Later that week, Sophia invited Ethan to an off-campus open mic night at a grungy little bookstore café called The Velvet Shelf.
"Come if you wanna hear bad poetry and worse espresso," she said with a wink.
He went, obviously.
The place smelled like rain and ambition. College students huddled in mismatched chairs. A girl in a sunflower dress read a poem about burning her ex's hoodie. A guy in a beanie played the ukulele like his life depended on it.
Sophia took the stage last.
She didn't bring a guitar or notebook.
She just spoke.
Her voice trembled at first, then steadied. She talked about insomnia. About being afraid of forgetting who you are when no one's looking. About the soft apocalypse of growing up.
Ethan watched her like she was the center of gravity.
When she stepped offstage, the applause was hesitant at first, then swelling. She shrugged like it was nothing, but her cheeks were flushed.
"Not bad," he said, handing her a lukewarm coffee.
"Don't lie," she said.
"I'm not. You were raw. And real."
She looked at him, eyes searching. "Sometimes I don't know what's real."
He wanted to say, Me neither. That's why I came back.
But instead, he just nodded.
The next day, Ethan went home for the weekend. His family's small house looked the same: a bit faded, cozy, filled with the scent of ginger and detergent.
His dad was in the garage, tinkering with an old coffee machine. His mom was making dumplings, humming an old song.
"You okay?" his mom asked, studying his face.
Ethan smiled. "Yeah. Just thinking a lot lately."
"Thinking is good. But remember to feel, too."
Later, his father handed him a folder.
"Got approached by a real estate investor. Wants to partner on a development project."
Ethan's heart sank.
This was it.The deal that had drained their savings. The one that had led to years of debt and quiet arguments behind closed doors.
He opened the folder. Glossy numbers. Promises of returns. All lies.
"Dad... don't sign this," he said, steady but firm.
His father blinked. "Why not? You've barely looked at it."
"Because it's a trap. The land has zoning issues. The investor's been sued twice. I—I did some research. Just trust me."
His dad hesitated. Then nodded.
"Alright. I'll wait. You seem... sure."
Ethan felt a wave of relief.
He was changing the past—one step at a time.
Back at campus, he met Sophia again under the oak tree.
This time, she looked nervous.
"Hey... can I ask you something kinda intense?"
"Always."
"Do you ever feel like... you're running out of time, even when everything's just beginning?"
Ethan looked at her, really looked.
And he knew what she meant.
She didn't just mean school. Or youth.
She meant meaning. Identity. That quiet panic at 3 a.m. when life feels too big and too small at once.
He took her hand gently.
"Every day. But maybe that's what makes it matter."
She didn't pull away.
Instead, she leaned her head on his shoulder.
For the first time in two lives, Ethan felt like he was finally making the right moves.