J Cooper

Chapter 12: Purple Skies and Quiet Questions

                As the days passed, I had to keep reminding myself to pull back. Not to rush things.
Because every time I looked at Connie, I missed us.

                Not this version of us—the fourth-grade awkwardness, the math worksheets, the unspoken familiarity. No, I missed us: adults, in love. The years we spent together. The quiet mornings and late-night drives. The inside jokes. The way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t watching.

                And now, I was a kid again. And she didn’t remember. I couldn’t tell anyone what I was going through except Grandma. Even though she believed me, I knew it was still hard to wrap your mind around. I was living it, and I struggled with it every single day.

                Some days I wondered if I was dying. In a coma. Or if the life I remembered even still existed. Was that life a dream? Or was this one? I didn’t know. And I wasn’t sure which answer would hurt more.

                But in the meantime, I had a mission: not just to better my life, but the lives of those around me. I wasn’t trying to remake the world in my image—God knows, I wasn’t perfect the first time. But I could offer something most people never got the first time around: grace. Kindness without condition. A voice in the dark reminding them they could still choose light.

                I  thought a lot about this quote I once heard in an interview with Squid Game actor Lee Jung-Jae. He said he wished someone had stopped him when he was younger, when he was about to make bad decisions. That if someone had looked him in the eye and said, “Stop, this isn’t you. You have a good heart,” things might’ve turned out differently.

                That stayed with me.

                So now, that’s what I did. A choice. A moment of kindness. A warning dressed like a joke. A hug when someone looked like they were barely holding it together. I couldn’t erase all the trauma. Some paths had too much momentum. But I could slow it down. Light a detour. Interrupt the spiral and pray it would be enough.

                 At school, there was a girl named Ellie. She used to sit near the back, always quiet, always drawing strange, beautiful little doodles in the margins of her notebook. In the original timeline, her parents crushed that part of her. Said art was “for losers.” Forced her into academics and prep courses.

                By high school, she had stopped drawing completely. But now? Things were already changing. I caught her sketching one day in class, and instead of pretending not to notice, I smiled and told her, “Hey, you’re really good.”
                She looked at me like I’d spoken another language. The next day, I asked her to draw me something beautiful. She came in with a sketch of her dog—a goofy-looking pit bull dressed like Indiana Jones.
                She grinned when she handed it to me. “I heard you like adventure movies.”

                I was floored. “This is amazing,” I said. “You should draw a whole series.”

                I slid her a new sketchbook a few days later for her birthday. Told her she could be the next Lisa Frank. When she squinted at the name, I just smirked and said, “You’ll know who that is in about five years.”

                She kept that sketchbook. And the one after it. By fourteen, she was entering art contests.
By sixteen, she was selling prints online. All I did was remind her she was allowed to want more.

                Things were better with Jordan too. He was staying with his aunt and uncle now, but he still came over after school a few days a week. We’d sit on the porch and eat popsicles and talk about random stuff—video games, school, what flavor of Doritos was superior (we agreed to disagree).

                One afternoon he told me, “I started writing stuff down. Like when I’m mad or scared. Just writing it.” Then, a little softer: “I got the idea from you.”

                He didn’t know how much that meant to me. He didn’t know how many nights I stayed up wondering if I was helping or just fooling myself. But that made it worth it. Every bit.

                 Connie and I started talking more after that first exchange about the purple sky. It was slow at first—small comments during art class, quick glances across the cafeteria. But there was a rhythm to it, like our friendship was a song I almost remembered from another life. She laughed with this kind of softness I’d forgotten I missed. She told me about her favorite cartoons, her sisters, how she always felt more comfortable with her dad even though she couldn’t explain why.

                I listened more than I spoke. Partly because I was afraid of saying too much, but mostly because I just wanted to hear her voice again. It grounded me. Made this strange miracle of a life feel less like a fluke and more like a second chance I hadn’t totally screwed up yet.

                Sometimes, when our hands brushed while grabbing crayons or reaching for the same book, I’d catch her studying me—like she was trying to remember a dream she wasn’t sure she’d had. She never said anything. Just gave me this look. One I recognized, recognition without context. And God, did that mess me up in the best way.

                Then there was Patrick, like me had undiagnosed ADHD, but was also clever. In the previous life he was always a lot smarter than he had let on. I’m not sure why, the same seemed to ring true now, as I began to suspect he picked up on some of my slipups, where I revealed more than I should have.

                He hadn’t asked me anything directly. But I could feel it. He’d walk into the room and watch me a little longer than usual. He’d pause outside the door when I was journaling. Once, I caught him flipping through one of the books I’d been hiding in my backpack—an old library copy of How to Influence and Inspire Others. Not exactly fourth-grade reading.

                He didn’t bring it up. Just raised an eyebrow and handed it back.

                “Self-help already?” he said with a smirk. “Midlife crisis hitting early?”

                I laughed it off, but inside, I felt a little cold. Not because he was catching on—but because he wasn’t pushing. He was filing it away. Like he was building a case, one quiet observation at a time.

                “I’m going to start getting you some comicbooks or something, so that you can be a little closer to normal.” He said before leaving the room, this part had been strangely similar to the first time. Back then though, he wanted to make me more interested in reading, because I was a terrible reader in the previous timeline, I eventually grew out of it and fell in love with reading. This was his attempt to help me.

                “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” I whispered to myself after had left. I was curious if he’d pick me up some Spider-man comics, like he did before. Only difference now, was Patrick seemed to actually like being around me and we were actually bonding. Maybe that scared him more than any suspicion ever could.

                One evening, we sat on the floor in the living room—him sketching, me sorting through my journal pages—and he nudged me with his elbow.

                “You ever think some people are just… old?” he asked. “Like, inside?”

                I looked up. “Old how?”

                “Like they’ve seen stuff. More than they’re supposed to. Even if no one else notices.”

                He didn’t look at me when he said it. Just kept drawing. I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. We sat in silence, the TV low in the background, his pencil scratching steadily across the page.

                                                                                *

                At school, Connie and I were paired up for a science project. We sat side by side at the library table, cutting pictures out of old magazines and talking about ecosystems and weather cycles like we were seasoned lab partners. Her red bracelet glinted in the light.

                “Do you ever get that feeling,” she said suddenly, “like something really big is going to happen, but you don’t know what yet?”

                I froze. “Yeah. All the time.”

                She nodded, twisting the bracelet around her wrist. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I’m waiting for something, but I don’t know what it is. Like something already happened, and I forgot about it.”

                Her eyes flicked to mine. “I sound crazy, don’t I?”

                “No,” I said softly. “You don’t.”

                We didn’t say much after that. Just kept cutting and gluing in quiet companionship. But that moment stayed with me—like a flare in the dark, reminding me that the past wasn’t lost. It was just… rewritten.

                That night, I added a new line to my plan:

                5. Don’t rush what’s already trying to find its way back.

                Because some things, I was starting to believe, were meant to return. Not because I forced them—but because love, when it’s real, has a way of echoing across time, I just hoped I was right.

                  Chapter 13: The Hardest Lesson

                It wasn’t all wins.       

                The first time I really tried to prevent something—like, really stepped in—was with Jamie Carter in fifth grade. In the original timeline, Jamie was one of the good ones. Loud, funny, smart when he cared to be. We were friends for a while—until we weren’t. He spiraled hard in his teens. Drugs. Drinking. A suicide attempt at nineteen. He survived, barely, but lost everything in the fallout. He died of an accidental overdose at twenty-six.

                Back then, I went to his funeral. I remember sitting in the back row, staring at the coffin like it wasn’t real. Like any second, Jamie would pop up and crack some dumb joke and the whole thing would turn out to be a prank. But he never did.

                This time around, I thought: Not again. I’d save him. Early and stop the slide before it started. I did everything right this time, at least, I thought I did.

                I befriended him early. Sat next to him in class. Laughed at his jokes. Stood up for him when kids teased him for being too loud, too much, too everything. I invited him to sit with me and Jordan at lunch. I even tried gently nudging him toward the counselor when I caught him crying behind the portables one day. He played it off, of course. Jamie always played it off.

                But something strange happened. The closer I got, the more closed off he became. Like he could sense I was holding something back. Which… I was. I couldn’t be honest. I couldn’t tell him how badly I wanted him to make it. How much I already knew about where his life could lead. And even though I tried to love him from a safe, guiding distance, I kept pushing too hard—too fast.

                By November, Jamie was avoiding me. He drifted back toward a rougher crowd. Said I was “acting weird,” always asking too many deep questions. Said I was “trying too hard.”

                He wasn’t wrong, I was trying too hard. Because I didn’t want to lose him again. But I did and this time, it happened sooner. I realized I was too desperate, and that desperation pushed him away and that crushed me.

                For days, I couldn’t focus. Grandma caught me staring into space again, that quiet storm behind my eyes, and she just sighed and sat beside me. “You remember what I told you about timing?” she asked.

                “Yeah,” I muttered. “It sucks.”

                She gave a soft chuckle. “Sugar, some flowers bloom early, and some don’t bloom ‘til the frost clears. Ain’t no use yelling at the seed to hurry up.”

                Weeks passed. I pulled back from trying to save people and focused instead on being present for them. Connie and I had grown closer—slowly, naturally. We passed notes in class, made each other laugh during spelling drills, and teamed up on art projects where she insisted skies could still be purple if you wanted them to be.

                She’d sometimes just sit near me during recess without saying much, like we were magnets slowly being pulled toward each other without quite understanding why. I didn’t push. I didn’t need to.

                One day, I brought up the idea of dreams. “Do you ever feel like there’s something you’re supposed to remember, but it’s right outside your reach?”

                Connie stared at me for a long moment. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Sometimes when I look at you.”

                I didn’t say anything back. But my heart stayed full for the rest of the day.

Then came the moment.

                There was this girl, Maddy Grant, who got humiliated in gym class during dodgeball. In my original timeline, that day wrecked her confidence for years. She dropped out of sports, got bullied relentlessly, started hiding in bathrooms at lunch. I remembered that pain. I remembered watching and doing nothing, because I was afraid I’d become a target myself.

                Now, standing in the same gym, holding the same red dodgeball, I saw the setup happening again. Same cruel grin on the boy’s face. Same stumble. Same blush crawling up her cheeks. Everything in me screamed to jump in—to catch the ball before it hit her, to snap at the boy, to stop it before it happened again.

                But I froze, not out of fear but out of choice.

                Because for the first time, I understood that some moments don’t need a savior. They need a witness. Someone to see you. To offer kindness after, not prevention before. The trauma wasn’t in the throw. It was in the silence that followed.

                So, I waited.

                And when she left the gym, red-faced and blinking fast, I followed.

                “Hey,” I said gently. “That sucked. I’m sorry.”

                She didn’t say anything.

                So, I added, “You know, you’re really fast. I saw you outrun Jason during warmups. You should think about trying out for track next year.”

                She blinked. “What?”

                “You’re quick,” I said, shrugging. “Like superhero fast.” And then I walked away.

                The next day, she sat with me and Ellie at lunch. The week after that, she joined us in playing tag. By spring, she’d signed up for track.

                                                                                                *

                That was the lesson. The one I needed more than any other. I couldn’t control everything. Couldn’t play God. But I could show up. I could plant the seed and trust the people I loved to grow in their own time.

                Patrick had been watching me closer lately. He hadn’t said much, but his eyes lingered longer now. Like he was taking mental notes.

                One night, he walked into my room and leaned against the doorframe.

                “You’re not just smart,” he said. “You’re… weird smart. Like you know stuff you’re not supposed to.”

                I didn’t reply and he didn’t press.

                But as he walked off, he muttered, “I’m not dumb, y’know.”

                And I whispered, after he left, “I never thought you were.”

                A part of me wanted to tell him the truth—but I’d already risked enough by telling Grandma. I didn’t feel right using my knowledge of the timeline for personal gain, not even for my family. It wasn’t about getting rich. Even back in my forties, all I ever wanted was to be comfortable—to not stress about bills or be stuck in a job I hated. I’ve seen what happens to the ultra-wealthy. No matter how good your intentions are, most people who come into money forget where they came from. They lose touch with what really matters. I never wanted that.

                Grandma was quietly building a little nest egg for us using some of my stock market tips. She asked me once if I could just give her a few winning lottery numbers. I shook my head. That would draw too much attention. But small moves? Careful steps? Just enough to make sure we could live comfortably, maybe retire early? That felt right. That felt fair.