J Cooper

  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.

             Chapter 14: The Ripples We Leave

                Not every path can be rewritten. Not every wound can be prevented. But every time I reached someone—really reached them—it was worth it. I wasn’t a savior. Not a prophet. Not some chosen one. I was just a man with a second chance… choosing not to waste it just on himself and you know what? Sometimes all people need is a single voice whispering:
                “You don’t have to go down the road you think you do.”
                “You’re not alone.”
                “I’m proud of you.”

                I saw it happen in sixth grade. It was right after gym class. My legs were sore from my self-inflicted morning calisthenics.
                I’d been working out in earnest—not because I wanted to show off, but because I wanted to build good habits early. In my first life, I’d worked out off and on for years. I’d always stayed healthy, kept an athletic build, but I didn’t get into really good shape—like abs-for-the-first-time shape—until I was forty.

                This time, it felt good to start young. To earn my strength instead of chasing it later. As I passed through the hallway, I caught the tail end of an argument near the lockers. I slowed, just enough to see.

                Caleb—the same Caleb I’d helped escape that storm all those years ago—was standing between a senior and a kid half his size. The senior was puffed up and loud, doing that obnoxious chest-thump routine. Honestly, I never understood that stance—arms out, chin up, face totally exposed. It always seemed like a dumb way to start a fight, but a good way to lose one.

                But Caleb didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice. He just stood his ground and said, cool and clear:
                “Pick on someone else, man. Or you’ll have me to deal with.”

                The senior blinked, thrown off. Then scoffed and walked away, pretending he hadn’t just been shut down by a sixth grader. I stood there for a second, stunned. Because this Caleb? He was different. He looked stronger. More confident. Grounded. In my first life, Caleb would’ve kept walking. Would’ve ignored it, not out of apathy, but fear. This version of him stood tall.

                And I was proud. Because in that moment, I realized. This wasn’t just about me anymore.
This was legacy.

                                                                                                *

                As the days passed, I had to keep reminding myself to slow down. Not to push too hard. I missed my old life—missed being seen, understood. I missed technology, modern TV. God, I missed driving. But more than anything, I missed Connie. Not the bright-eyed girl in my class now. But the woman she would become. My partner. My safe place. The person who knew me better than I knew myself. Now, she didn’t remember me. Not really. And it hurt. But it was also… something else.

                Because even though her memories were gone, some part of her still recognized me.
At first, I thought maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see. But the signs kept stacking up.

One day, she handed me half her sandwich at lunch. “You look hungry,” she said.
(She was right—I’d skipped breakfast.)

                Another day, she let me borrow her favorite colored pencil in art and didn’t ask for it back. I returned it anyway—freshly sharpened, tied with a ribbon I’d torn from my notebook.

                Out of nowhere one afternoon, she looked at me and said, “You remind me of someone I used to know… but I can’t remember who.” Then she frowned like it hurt to try. That one stuck with me for days.

                One morning, we were walking along the blacktop when she tripped and scraped her knee. I helped her up. She held my hand the whole way to the nurse’s office. When I asked if she was okay, she looked at me and said,
                “Now I am.”

                That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling—hand still remembering the warmth of hers.

                The hardest part wasn’t the distance. It wasn’t even the silence. It was knowing I had already loved her with everything I had and now, I’d have to wait and see if she could fall in love with me again.

                I made some promises to myself. Rules, really.

                I would love her honestly and completely.
                I wouldn’t lie to win her over—no matter how much I knew.
                I wouldn’t manipulate her, or play games with fate.
                If one day she chose me or didn’t… I’d love her just the same.
                I would stand by her, as long as she’d have me.

                And I wouldn’t rush it. Whatever happened between us this time around—it had to be real, natural and earned.

                Waiting to grow up again was a pain—probably the hardest part of this whole second chance.
                Humans aren’t wired for waiting. We want what’s coming, and we want it now.

                But waiting is part of the deal. It’s the price of becoming someone better.
It’s the path to anything worth having. I thought having all my memories intact would make everything easier. That knowing what happens next would give me control.

                It didn’t.

                The future still takes its sweet time. And no matter how much I want to skip ahead—say the right thing, stop the worst from happening—I can’t just fast-forward through life.

                But here’s the strange part: the longer I wait, the more I change. The things I thought I wanted right away? Not all of them matter anymore. Some of them were just noise. Waiting gave me perspective. It gave me wisdom I didn’t expect—and maybe didn’t want.

                Now, I wait with purpose. I wait to see what sacrifice might be asked of me. I wait to understand where I’m supposed to go, and when. I wait for that day—the one I know is coming—when everything shifts again.

                Hope lives in the waiting.
                So does love.
                So does faith
                And so do I.

                Around this time, my parents had started their divorce proceedings—
much later than they did in the first timeline. Back then, the divorce was early, bitter, and full of screaming. My mom got full custody, and her new husband… well. That part of my childhood turned into hell.

                But now? Things were different. This time, the separation was more civil. My mom didn’t remarry right away. Patrick and I split our time evenly between both parents. Dad moved in with Grandma, and thanks to her secret nest egg, they were able to get a better place than I remembered.

                Mom wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but… she was better.
Eighty percent better, maybe. She still had her moments—but I could see her wrestling with her demons. I started gently playing the role of therapist. Nudging, not pushing.

                Then one night, she broke down crying and told me about her father.
How he used to beat her, tell me story after story about how hard he was on her and her siblings.  
                And it hit me, that old line: Hurt people hurt people, Unless someone decides to break the cycle.

                Unless someone says: It ends with me.

                Patrick was getting better as well, but I could see he was beginning to suspect more and more that something was off with me. He never said anything directly. But I could tell—he was noticing. The way he watched me sometimes… quiet, calculating. Like he was filing things away.

                “Why do you always know what to say to people?” he asked one day, eyes on the TV as we played video games. “It’s freaky.”

                I shrugged. “I don’t. I just pay attention.”
                He didn’t respond. Just grunted. Let it sit. But later that night, after he bombed a quiz and I offered a quiet, You did your best. It’s okay to mess up, just means you’re still learning.
He looked at me like I’d just grown a second head.

                Not suspicious, or afraid. Just curious. Like he wasn’t sure what I was…
But maybe it wasn’t so bad having me around.

                “I guess it’s kinda cool having you here,” he mumbled.

                I smiled. “I guess it’s kinda cool being here.”

            Chapter 15: The Truth and the Dream

                By sixth grade, the days had begun to blur. I was growing into this body. Growing into this life. But sometimes, when I looked in the mirror, I still half-expected to see my forty-five-year-old face staring back at me—tired, lined, familiar. I’d started taking care of myself earlier this time. I worked out every morning, just like I had in my later years, not for abs or attention, but because it grounded me. My muscles were still small, sure—but they were mine, and they were earned.

                My mission hadn’t changed. Help when I could. Protect when I must. And do no harm. But that balance was hard. Because even with my “grown man” memories, I was still eleven. And the people I loved most were getting harder to lie to. Especially Patrick.

                He’d been watching me for years now—longer, really. Logging the strange things I said. The moments I “guessed” something right. The way I always knew what to say when someone was hurting, or how I reacted a little too calmly in a crisis. And then there was Connie. She’d started looking at me differently as well. Still kind. Still sharp. But curious, familiar.

                One afternoon, after a long Friday, Patrick pulled me aside. He didn’t ask, didn’t demand—just closed the door to our shared bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed like he was bracing for an impact.

                “You’re gonna tell me now,” he said simply. “No more dodging.”

                I blinked. “Tell you what?”

                He gave me a look that burned through the walls I’d carefully kept up. “Everything.”

                I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Something in his face—some mix of concern and loyalty and exhaustion—made me stop pretending.

                So I sat down across from him. Quiet. Heart pounding.

                And then I said it.

                “I’m not from here. Not… from now, I mean.”

                His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t interrupt. So I kept going.

                “I’m from the future. I was forty-five. And something happened—I don’t know what, maybe I died, maybe the world broke—but I woke up again. In my two-year-old body. With all my memories intact.”

                He stared. I watched his world teeter on the edge of disbelief. But he didn’t laugh. Didn’t call me crazy.

                “You’re serious,” he finally said.

                I nodded. “I didn’t ask for this. But it happened. And now… I’m just trying to do something good with it.”

                Patrick leaned back slowly, like his brain was buffering in real time. “So… that’s how you always know stuff. Why you’re so weirdly calm all the time. And why you act like an old man sometimes.”

                “I am an old man sometimes,” I muttered.

                A beat passed. Then—unexpectedly—Patrick laughed.

                “Jesus, you’re like Benjamin Button meets Doctor Who.”

                “I prefer Quantum Leap,” I said, smirking.

                He looked at me again, more seriously now. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

                “Because who would believe me? I mean really? The only person I ever told was Grandma and I promised myself I wouldn’t tell anyone else unless I had to. It’s not safe. And I didn’t want to mess things up by using what I know to get ahead.”

                Patrick looked down, picking at a thread on his blanket. “So what do you want, then?”

                I  paused.

                “Peace. For me, for you. For Mom and Dad. For Connie. I don’t want to change the world—I just want to make our little corner of it better than it was before.”

                Patrick was quiet, then asked the question I knew was coming.

                I hesitated, then told him the truth. “Honestly… not well. You fell in with the wrong crowd. You stopped drawing, stopped caring about art. You ended up getting addicted to drugs and from there… became a dealer. You got caught. You spent several years behind bars. And when you got out… let’s just say you didn’t exactly land on your feet.”

                He blinked. “I was a drug dealer? Seriously?”

                I nodded once.

                “And not even like, a cool heist guy with a tragic backstory? Just straight-up drugs and jail?”

                “Afraid so.”

                Patrick stared at the ceiling. “Man, I always knew I had main character potential, but that is not the arc I wanted.”

                I laughed, even though it wasn’t funny. “It was rough to watch. I always hoped you’d find your way out. But you just kept going deeper. Every time I thought you’d hit rock bottom, you found a shovel.”

                Patrick let out a low whistle. “Damn. That sucks.” He was quiet again. Then, softer: “So that’s my future?”

                “No,” I said gently. “It was. Now it can be shaped into anything you want it to be.”

                He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. “Wait… is that why you kept pushing me to draw again?”

                I nodded. “We grew apart in the other lifetime. We don’t have to do that again.”

                He sat with that for a moment, then smirked. “Okay, but if I become some world-famous artist, I’m still not giving you any money.”

                “You won’t have to,” I grinned. “Grandma’s already got Apple stock.”

                Patrick cracked a real laugh—short but honest. He looked at me again, this time with something different in his eyes. Something heavier. More awake.

                “Thanks,” he said finally. “For giving me another shot. I’ll try not to screw it up this time.”

                “You won’t,” I said. “Not alone, anyway.”

                He nodded. “Yeah. Just… promise me something?”

                “Anything.”

                “If it ever gets too heavy, or if you think you’re losing it… tell me. Don’t carry it all alone.”

                My throat tightened. I swallowed and said, “I won’t. I promise.”

                He didn’t say anything else after that. Just threw a pillow at me and said, “Alright, future-boy. Movie night or video games?”

                I laughed. “Let’s do both.”

                                                                                *

                That weekend, Connie and I sat next to each other in art class. We were working on a “draw your dream” assignment. Most of the class doodled roller coasters or animals. Connie was quiet, focused. When she finally showed me her paper, my heart nearly stopped.

                It was me—but not as I looked now. Older. Sharper. In jeans and a flannel shirt I hadn’t worn in this life, but had worn all the time in the other. I was sitting under a tree, smiling at her across a table filled with books and tea.

                “Who’s that?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

                She tilted her head. “I… I don’t know. But he feels familiar, kinda reminds me of you.”

                “You dreamt this?”

                She nodded. “It was peaceful. Like… I knew him forever.”

                I stared at the drawing, my voice barely above a whisper.

                “Looks like he really cared about you.”

                She looked at me then. Not as a classmate. Not as a boy she talked to sometimes. But like she knew me. Or almost did.

                “Yeah,” she said softly. “It felt like he really did.”

                                                                                *

                That night, I didn’t sleep. Because sometimes, the heart remembers long before the mind catches up and if there was one thing I’d learned over and over again in both lives, it was this:

                Not every path can be rewritten. Not every wound can be prevented. But every time I reached someone—really reached them—it was worth it. These words have become my mantra, words I found oddly comforting and now I wasn’t just a boy with a secret. I was a brother, a friend, a witness to lives being rewritten in quiet, beautiful ways and maybe, just maybe…I was starting to believe I deserved this second chance, too.

                Chapter 16: The Day the World Tilted…just a bit.

            Some days, change whispers. Other days, it kicks the damn door in. But most of the time? It’s quieter than all that. It comes in small gestures—a steady hand, a soft look, a moment when someone stands a little straighter than the day before. It sneaks up on you until, one day, you realize everything’s shifted… and no one noticed but you.

                That’s how it felt the day Jordan came back.

                I hadn’t seen much of him in over a week. I thought maybe he’d fallen back into old habits—like in my first life, when things started to spiral, and he disappeared little by little. He’d miss school, always teetering on the line of truancy, then he’d become more and more of a bully.

                But this time, Jordan walked into the cafeteria like someone who had found his footing. Hair freshly trimmed. Shoulders squared. Eyes clear and sharp. He didn’t sit with the usual crowd. Instead, he walked right up to the front of the room, climbed onto a bench, and said:

                “Hey, uh—sorry to interrupt. I just wanna say something real quick.”

                The cafeteria buzz dipped into a hush. Jordan cleared his throat.

                “Some of us don’t have it easy at home. Some of us feel like ghosts. I used to feel like that too. But lately I’ve been thinking—what if we stopped pretending like we’re all fine, and actually looked out for each other?”

                A few kids chuckled awkwardly. But he didn’t flinch.

                “I’m starting something,” he went on. “It’s not a club-club. Just a group. For anyone who wants to talk. Or write. Or be around people who get it.”

                Then he looked across the lunchroom—right at me.

“You said you wanted to change the world, right?” he called out with a grin. “Thought I’d help.”

                He hopped down before anyone could make fun of him, walked over, and plopped down next to me like nothing had happened.

                “I didn’t think you liked public speaking,” I said, trying not to sound choked up.

                “I don’t,” he shrugged. “But… remember that graham cracker? Back when we were, like, two?”

                I blinked.

                “You didn’t want it,” he said. “I knew no one wanted to trade with me. But you did. And you still said thanks like you meant it.”

                He nudged me with his elbow. “That stuck with me, dude. I don’t know why, but it did. So I figured… maybe I could do something that sticks with someone else.”

                I smiled. “You already did. And I’m really proud of you, man.”

                He gave a small nod. “Listen, I know we were just little kids back then, but that graham cracker was awful. You gave me your whole box of animal crackers, and I never saw you eat that thing. Something about that… I don’t know, it stayed with me. You and your family… you always made me feel like I belonged.”

                “Thanks, brother,” I said genuinely, catching him eyeing my tray. “Want half my pizza?”

                “Hell yes!” he grinned, high-fiving me like we were six again.

                                                                                *

                That afternoon, during reading time, Connie leaned over and whispered, “Do you ever think… maybe we’ve met before? Like, before now?”

                I froze with my book in hand. She laughed awkwardly and shook her head. “Forget it. That was dumb.” But her eyes lingered on mine longer than they should’ve.

                I didn’t say anything—not out loud. I pulled out a scrap of paper, wrote a quick note, folded it twice, and passed it under the desk.

                She opened it beneath her book.

                If we had, would you want to meet me again? Because I would. I’d get to know you all over again until I knew you better than I know myself.

                Her cheeks flushed pink. She tried to hide her smile… then quietly slid her pudding cup onto my tray. For Connie, that was sacred currency. That pudding cup was as close as she got to “I like you.”

                A few minutes later, she passed a note back.

                You’re weird. But I think I’m okay with that.

                I pressed the note between the pages of my book like it was a pressed flower.

                                                                                *

                After school, Jordan came by my place to talk more about his new group. A few kids had already approached him with interest, and now we were sitting under the big oak tree in my front yard. His notebook was open, pages filled with scribbles.

                “So,” he said, “weird question. Should we have snacks? Like, for when we meet up? I remember your grandma and dad always bringing us snacks.”

                “Absolutely,” I nodded. “We all need to eat. And from what you told me, those animal  crackers stuck with you.”

                He laughed. “Sorry, man… I should’ve shared.”

                “Dude, you were two. We all do selfish stuff when we’re little. That’s part of growing up.  None of us is born perfect, or knowing what to say all the time.”

                “You do,” Jordan said.

                I paused. From his point of view, he wasn’t wrong.

                “I still make mistakes. The thing is, Jordan, we all mess up. What matters is what we learn, how we try to make up for it. Just don’t carry around that regret—regret, hate, bitterness—they’ll weigh you down more than any backpack.”

                Jordan was quiet for a long time, then suddenly bent over his notebook and started scribbling furiously.

“That’s… pretty good,” he muttered. “Okay, what should we call this group, or club, or  whatever?”

I thought a moment. “What about The Bench? You stood on one today. Might as well let it be symbolic.”

                Jordan raised an eyebrow. “Damn. That’s… I actually like that. Think it’ll stick?”

                I leaned back in the grass. “It’ll stick.”

                                                                                                *
                 That night, just before bed, Patrick strolled past my room and lobbed something inside. I heard it clatter on the floor—hardcover. Sharp edges. I picked it up: a brand-new sketchpad. High-quality. A roll of pencils tucked into the spiral binding.

                “In case you get bored of journaling all your mysterious deep thoughts,” Patrick said from the doorway.

                I turned. “What’s this for?”

                He leaned on the frame, casual—but his voice was different. Softer.

                “You said we grew apart before. We’re not letting that happen again.”

 My throat went tight. I glanced back at the sketchpad and muttered, “You sure it’s not  just because you’re tired of me kicking your ass in Mortal Kombat?”

                He snorted. “Please. I let you win, old man.”

                I grinned. “Sure you did.”

                He turned to walk away but paused in the doorway.

                “I want you to show me whatever you draw.”

                I blinked. “Why?”

                He shrugged. “No reason. Just figured if you’re gonna be my weird little time-traveling brother, you might as well make something cool while you’re at it.”

                I burst out laughing. “You’re such a dork.”

                He tossed a grin over his shoulder. “Takes one to know one.”

                He didn’t say anything after that. Just nodded once and disappeared down the hall. But that small gesture—that unspoken promise—landed like a hug I didn’t know I needed.

                 In my first timeline, on this exact day, my brother had been caught smoking cigarettes behind the school. It might sound small, but for Patrick, it started a chain reaction that led to harder drugs, a record, and years of regret.

But this time? He handed me a sketchpad.

                The world doesn’t shift in one great moment. It tilts—slightly, quietly, permanently. Connie was smiling at me like she might remember who we were. Jordan was starting something that didn’t exist before. Patrick had my back.

                And for the first time in both my lives…I wasn’t walking alone.

                Chapter 17: The Spark That Didn’t Burn Out

                Some people wait for the world to change with a bang. But I’ve found the real turning points are quieter. They don’t arrive with fireworks or fanfare. They show up on a Tuesday afternoon, in a dusty classroom, with a kid standing in front of his peers and a heart beating too loud in his chest. That was the day Jordan held the first official meeting of The Bench Kids.

                It wasn’t anything fancy—just a small classroom our teacher let him borrow during lunch. No one was forced to be there. No sign-up sheet. Just a circle of mismatched chairs and a table with a box of Reese’s cups and Cokes my dad donated after Jordan shyly asked if granola bars and water were “a good idea.” Luckily, my dad had the biggest sweet tooth in the world and was still a big kid himself—he was more than happy to help.

                There were seven kids, including me and Connie. A few were curious. One or two clearly came just to get out of the cafeteria—or to see what snacks were provided. Jordan sat in the center chair, hands clenched in his lap, knuckles white. He looked terrified.

                His mouth opened and closed. Then opened again. No sound came out. In both lifetimes, I’d never seen Jordan at a loss for words. My heart ached for him, but I couldn’t take over. This was his moment. He needed to feel like the hero—because he was.

So I leaned forward just enough for him to see me and mouthed, “You’ve got this.”

                He stared at me, swallowed, then stood.

                “Uh… hi,” he said. “I’m Jordan. You probably already know that.”

                A kid I didn’t recognize let out a nervous laugh.

                “I, uh… I didn’t really plan what I was gonna say,” he admitted. “But this group is for anyone who’s ever felt like they don’t belong. Or like they’re carrying stuff they can’t talk about. I’m not a counselor or anything. I just… wanted to try something.” He looked down, then back up.

                “I spent a lot of time feeling like crap. Like I didn’t matter. Like I was invisible unless I was being loud or mean. But someone reminded me—no, someone showed me—that just being kind… really kind… can change everything. So this is my way of trying.”

                The room went still. Then Connie clapped—softly, but with intent. The others followed. Jordan sat down, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. Slowly, his shoulders dropped, and he eased into his usual self.

                “I know at least one of you came here for the snacks or to skip lunch. But we can be more than that. We can be friends. So no one has to be—or feel—alone.”

                He held up a small stack of papers. “I wrote down my info, in case anyone needs someone to talk to… or someone to sit with. You can do the same. No pressure.”

                He looked up. “We don’t always have to talk about what’s bugging us. We can just hang out. Play games. Be stupid. Whatever.”

                To my surprise, every kid filled out their contact info. The rest of the meeting flowed more naturally. Jordan shared a little about his dad and how he now lived with his aunt and uncle. Connie talked about her parents’ divorce and how her sisters always excluded her—but how her friends had become a kind of found family.

                I smiled to myself. Found family—that had been my motif in the previous life.

                To break the ice, I suggested we play the Marvel Super Heroes roleplaying game. I was a double expert, having played it for years with Patrick in my previous life, and dozens of times already in this one. Some were hesitant—even Connie—but once we started rolling dice, no one wanted to stop. I promised we could pick it up again next meeting or even hang out after school. Everyone preferred the second option.

                After the meeting, Jordan pulled me aside.

                “You didn’t jump in,” he said. “At the beginning.”

                I shrugged. “It wasn’t my spotlight to steal. You earned this. You’re a real-life hero now.”

                He smiled. “Still… thanks. That means a lot.”

                Connie caught up with us as we walked out. “That was really brave,” she told Jordan.

                He turned red. “Yeah, well… I didn’t throw up, so I’m calling it a win.”

                I laughed. “Barely.”

                She fell into step beside me as we headed home. The three of us walked together until Jordan waved goodbye at his block, leaving just me and Connie under the amber glow of a dying sun.

                “Do you think it’ll work?” she asked. “His group?”

                “I think it already is,” I said. “It’s giving people a place to sit when they’ve got nowhere else.”

                We walked in silence for a while, then she glanced sideways at me.

                “You really believe in him.”

                “I do.”

                She paused. “I think I believe in you.”

                I stumbled a little. Played it off.

                “You okay?” she asked.

                “Yeah,” I smiled. “Just… stepped on a thought.”

                She rolled her eyes but grinned. “You’re so weird.”

                “I know.” But she didn’t let go of my hand.

                We didn’t say much after that. Just the soft rhythm of sneakers on sidewalk and dusk creeping in. Somewhere between school and my street, we detoured.

                There was this grassy hill near the park, the kind no one ever mowed right, where the trees cleared just enough to see the stars. I laid back without thinking. She followed. Arms behind her head. Eyes scanning the sky like she was waiting for answers.

                It was quiet for a long time before she said:

                “Do you ever feel like you’re living someone else’s life?”

                My breath caught. “Sometimes… in a way.”

                She nodded. “Lately, I’ve been having these dreams. Not nightmares. Just… strange. Familiar. I’m older. I think I’m married. I never see his face, but I feel safe. Really safe. And there’s this voice. His voice, I think. He says things like, ‘You’re braver than you think,’ or, ‘I’ve got you.’”

                She looked at me. “Is that crazy?”

                “No,” I said quietly. “Not even a little.”

                “I thought maybe it was just me trying to escape. My mom barely talks to me. My dad has problems of his own. School is… school. But these dreams don’t feel like escape. They feel like a memory. Or maybe a promise.”

                She rolled onto her side to face me.

                “And here’s the part that freaks me out. The guy in the dream? I think it’s you.”

                My heart thudded.

                “Not you-now you,” she clarified, frowning like she was solving a puzzle with missing pieces. “But still… you.”

                I looked at her—just inches away beneath a sky too big for us—and for a moment, I saw the woman she’d grow into. The one I’d loved. The one who remembered pieces of me I hadn’t even given her yet.

                “I don’t know how to explain it,” she whispered. “But sometimes, when you talk to me… it’s like you already know me. Like, really know me. And it should freak me out, but it doesn’t. It feels right.”

                I didn’t trust myself to speak.

                After a long silence, I whispered, “If it is me… I meant every word.”

                She blinked. “What words?”

                “‘I’ve got you.’”

                She smiled. Just barely. But it was real. She didn’t push for answers. Didn’t run. She just scooted a little closer until our arms brushed.

                “Okay,” she said softly. “Then don’t let go.”

                I didn’t.

                She rolled back to face the stars. “You talk like someone who already knows how the story ends. Not just yours. Like… everyone’s. Like you’re walking around with a map you won’t let anyone else see.”

                I didn’t lie. But I couldn’t tell her the truth either. So I just said:

                “If there is a map… I only use it to keep others from getting lost.”

                She smiled. “Then don’t let me get lost, okay?”

                I reached for her hand in the dark and gave it a gentle squeeze.

                “Never.”

                 In the days that followed, I noticed little things.

                Connie wasn’t just spending more time with me—she was watching people differently. Picking up on things faster. Trusting her gut more. She was always smart, but now she was intuitive, reading between the lines—even the invisible ones.

                When a teacher snapped at a student, she quietly shifted her seat closer. When a girl cried in the locker room, Connie passed her a note. Not dramatic. Just simple: “I’ve been there too. You’re not alone.”

                She was watching me more, too—not just romantically (though there was that). She was putting pieces together, trying to connect what she felt with what she knew. She wasn’t afraid and that stunned me most of all.

                As for me? I was shaken. The way she remembered me—like some echo of the other life had reached her—it left me wondering if this version of me was meant to be more like her. Intuitive. Feeling without remembering. Or maybe… just maybe… life was bringing us back together anyway.

                                                                                                *

                Later that week, just before bed, Patrick knocked once and let himself in. He sat on the foot of my bed like it was no big deal, but the way he fidgeted told me it was.

                “So… in that other future—the one you lived through—do I ever get out? Like, really out? From the crap I get stuck in?”

                I sat up. “You mean the drugs?”

                He nodded. “The bad choices. The people. The… guilt.”

                I didn’t speak right away. Then I said, “Eventually, yeah. But not before you lose a lot. Time. People. Pieces of yourself. You survive—but you don’t come out clean.”

                Patrick’s jaw tightened.

                “But,” I added, “you’re already different. You’ve done things you never did before. You and I are closer. You’re listening. Reaching out. That’s how it starts. That’s how it changes.”

                He looked away. Then back.

                “I don’t wanna screw it up again.”

                “Then don’t.”

                He laughed quietly. “Is it that easy?”

                “No,” I said. “But it is that possible.”

                He stood up. Started to leave. Then turned.

                “Thanks. For not giving up on me before I even got a chance.”

                “You never needed to be anyone else, Pat. You just needed to be seen.”

                He lingered at the door.

                “One more thing.”

                “Yeah?”

                “…I still let you beat me in Mortal Kombat.”

                I grinned. “Sure you did.”

               
                Chapter 18:   Fractures and Fragments              
                By 7th grade, puberty crept in like a squatter—unwelcome and early. My voice hadn’t cracked yet, but my body was betraying me again. Hair in new places. Sudden waves of irritation. Restlessness I couldn’t explain. I knew the signs. I’d lived them before. But this time, I couldn’t just shrug and move on.

                It was hard enough being a 45-year-old in a preteen body. Now I had to do this again? It was exhausting—mentally, physically, emotionally. My joints ached in a way they shouldn’t at this age. My brain ran faster than my body could keep up. And every moment felt heavier lately. Like I was carrying people I hadn’t told I was carrying. Jordan, Patrick. Connie, Grandma. Dad.  Mom and myself.

                I was tired. Not the kind of tired a nap could fix. The kind that settles into your bones when you’ve been pretending too long. Pretending to be a kid. Pretending I had a handle on things. Pretending I wasn’t afraid when I was. I was felt myself fraying at the edges.

                Patrick had been doing better—drawing more, smiling occasionally, eating at the table instead of alone. But lately, he’d started pulling away again. It started small: brushing off my questions, retreating to old hangouts, skipping breakfast. Then one night, he didn’t come home until almost midnight. Grandma said nothing, but I saw the way her hands trembled a little as she poured herself a glass of Diet Coke.

                When I finally caught him alone in the garage, crouched over an old toolbox pretending to fix his bike, I didn’t yell. I just sat beside him.

                “I missed you last night,” I said.

                He didn’t look up. “Yeah. Got caught up.”

                “Doing what?”

                “Nothing bad. Just… needed to think.”

                I waited.

                “I don’t know… It’s like—what am I even doing? Everyone seems to want something different from me,” he muttered. “Like, just because I picked up a pencil again, suddenly I’m supposed to be some artist, get good grades… I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even know if it matters.”

                I nudged a wrench with my toe. “It all matters—even when you don’t see it. Everything matters. Including you.”

                He finally looked up.

                “You’re being weird again, Mr. Quantum Leap,” he said—but it wasn’t mean. Just quiet. Tired, like I had been feeling for weeks.

                “Listen, I know it feels like there’s pressure and there is. I just want the best for you. I want you to be the best version of yourself. So… what do you want?”

                Patrick sighed, sat back against the wall, and let his head thunk against the sheetrock.

                “I don’t know. I like to draw. I want to make comics. But I feel like the more I try to be better, the more I realize how far behind I am.”

                “You’re not behind,” I said. “You’re just starting from a different place.”

                He didn’t say anything, but he stayed. And when I handed him his sketchbook later that night, he took it.

                                                                                *

                Later, while I sat on the porch watching dusk settle in, Grandma stepped outside and handed me a mug of cocoa. She sat beside me, her silence as comforting as the warmth in my hands.

                “You’re carrying a lot,” she said.

                I didn’t answer right away. Just stared out at the yard.

                “You can’t save everyone, and you can’t do it all on your own,” she said. “Even grownups forget that. Let yourself rest too, honey. You can’t pour from an empty cup.”

                I nodded, and for a moment, I just let myself be still.

                She was right. I knew she was.

                “Besides… since you have a second chance, think about why this age? Why not start you over at six? Or twelve? Even twenty? Maybe this whole second chance is to give you another shot at being a kid again. From what you’ve told me; you didn’t have the best childhood the first time around. Maybe, just maybe… this time, you’re supposed to enjoy being young again. If I had it to do all over, you best believe I’d be running and playing with friends.”

                “You’re right,” I said after a beat, taking a sip of my cocoa. “Thank you, Grandma.” I leaned into her, and she wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

                “Even travelers need a rest now and then.”

                Over the next few days, I took Grandma’s advice. I made more time to hang out with Jordan, the Bench kids, Connie, and Patrick. I went on hikes and joined my dad on epic bike-riding adventures across town with my friends in tow.

                On one of those rides, Connie pedaled beside me, the breeze tugging at her braid. She told me how sometimes things just felt… familiar.

                “Sometimes I pick up a new book, and I already know how it’s going to end,” she said. “It’s like rereading something I’ve never read. Or watching a new movie but still guessing every twist.”

                “Déjà vu?” I offered.

                “More than that,” she said. “It just feels like… I’ve done this before. So I’ve started doing some things differently.”

                “Like choosing to live with your dad instead of your mom?”

                “Yeah.” She nodded. “Like I just knew my sisters would treat me badly, and my mom didn’t really… know me. Didn’t care to. But then I met this weird kid in class who always seems to know the right thing to say—and I swear sometimes he feels like an old man or something. But he’s my age. And somehow, he makes me feel safe. Like I’ve known him forever.”

                She looked over at me then—and her smile stopped me cold. It was the same smile I remembered from the first time I fell in love with her. The way she looked at me now… like she was starting to figure it all out.

                “Well, he sounds pretty cool,” I said, playing along. “As long as he’s nice.”

                “He’s very nice. It’s like… he actually enjoys being kind. Not for show. Like he sees real value in it.”

                “It’s fun to be nice,” I said with a smile.

                She was quiet a moment. Then: “Sometimes I think we’ve met before, you ever feel that way.”

                “All the time,” I admitted—too fast to catch myself.

                “Sometimes it freaks me out,” she continued. “Like something happened and I’m just… stuck in a dream. Or like trying to tune into a radio station that won’t come in clearly. But you hear just enough to know your favorite song is playing. So you keep trying. Sometimes it comes in clear. Sometimes it’s static.”

                The conversation was low-key triggering my anxiety. My mind spun with questions: Was she remembering me? Was this a test? Was she just guessing? Was this all just innocent? I wasn’t prepared for this.

                “Believe it or not… I understand.”

                She nodded slowly. “I believe you. I don’t know why. But I do.”

                Then she added, even softer, “There was another dream, too. We were older. On a hill. I was crying—I don’t remember why—but you were there. You comforted me. Then you pulled out this little boombox and started playing romantic songs. You helped me to my feet, and we danced under the stars.”

                My breath caught. I remembered that hill. I remembered that moment. The boombox… had been my phone. I was so lost in the memory I almost crashed my bike into a mailbox and barely had time to recover.

                                                                                *

                That weekend, Jordan did something small. Small—but huge.

                We were leaving school when a kid from his class dropped his backpack. Papers and crayons spilled everywhere. Some kids laughed. Jordan didn’t. He stopped, helped the kid gather everything, and said, “Happens to me all the time.”

                Later, I told him that was cool of him. He shrugged. “You’ve done it. Just figured I should too.”

                I smiled. “That’s how it spreads.”

                He smiled back. “Yeah? Then I hope it catches.” And for the first time in a while, I didn’t feel so tired.

                Chapter 19:   I Yelled ‘Alexa’ and a Horse Kicked Me

                I know I mentioned it before, but I really miss high-speed internet. It doesn’t help that, at this point in my second life, dial-up hasn’t even arrived yet. I miss the comforts of the 2028 era of living..

                 Chapter 20:   A light in the Fog

                By eighth grade, everything changed—and it started with a notebook.
A different one this time, not the usual kind Connie scribbled in. This one was covered in soft blue fabric, its pages fluttering like wings whenever she opened it.

                Connie sat beside me under the elm tree, knees pulled up, thumb rubbing the edge of the page.
                “Okay, don’t laugh,” she said, handing it over.
                “Never,” I promised.

                She didn’t smile. That alone alarmed me.

                I flipped it open and found a list—dates, descriptions, symbols. Each entry cataloged something strange: a dream, a feeling, a déjà vu too strong to ignore. She was tracking them now, trying to find patterns.

                March 17, 1990 – I told Mom before we saw it that the girl in Pretty Woman ends up with the guy. She said that’s not how these movies usually go. I said I just knew. She didn’t laugh this time.
                January 15, 1991 – I had a dream about a war starting on TV. Saw green lights in the sky. Next day, Dad said something called “Operation Desert Storm” had started. The news looked exactly like my dream.
                February 10, 1992 – I knew Whitney Houston was going to sing “I Will Always Love You” on the radio before it even started. I’d never heard it before, but I knew every word.
                August 17, 1992 – In the dream, I was running in slow motion through fog. Heard the word “Twin Peaks.” Didn’t know what it meant. Looked it up. It’s a show. Why would I dream about a weird soap opera?
                May 11, 1993 – I told Jordan the T-Rex was going to bust out of the fence in Jurassic Park before it even happened. He asked if I’d already seen the movie. I hadn’t. But I felt it coming.
                April 9, 1993 – Dreamt I was older again. The guy seemed like an older version of you. We were arguing—I’m not sure about what, just something stupid. I left. When I woke up, I was crying, but I didn’t remember why.
I think we both wanted to fix it but didn’t know how. It felt like we were trying to protect each other… and ended up pushing each other away. He kept telling me he was trying to help someone, but in the dream, I felt like he’d let me down. He’d promised me, and he always kept his promises before—never broke a single one. I knew he loved me. I never doubted that. But I didn’t feel chosen.
                June 17, 1994 – Saw a white Bronco in a dream days ago. Didn’t make sense until the news showed that slow chase with O.J. Simpson. It was like déjà vu in slow motion.
                May 21, 1995 – Knew Maggie shot Mr. Burns on The Simpsons. Don’t know how I knew—I just did. No one believed me.
                September 17, 1995 – I was right.

                The April 9, 1993 entry made my breath catch in my throat. I kept reading the other events she had written. She dreamt about TV shows, felt which books would become popular, accurately predicted Bill Clinton would beat George H. W. Bush—even picked up on little things. But that fight… that dream-fight… it took me back.

                I looked up. Connie was studying my face like I was a puzzle she was determined to solve, like the answer was just barely out of reach.

                The real fight—the one that inspired her dream—had been a disaster. A slow-burning mess of miscommunication, assumptions, and silence.

                I had been working at Spectrum as a training supervisor. I actually loved that job—mentoring, coaching, fixing broken things. But right before Christmas, I found out I was being laid off. Not just me—everyone at that location.
And I didn’t tell Connie.

                I didn’t want her to worry. I thought I could fix it. I threw myself into the numbers, reviewed performance reports, coached low performers until their stats skyrocketed. I drafted proposal after proposal. Wrote the president of the company. Pleaded our case. We were the top-performing site for years. We deserved a shot.

                But on January 1, 2024, they shut us down.

                Connie, meanwhile, had been working toward something huge: her first-ever poetry reading. She’d planned it for months. I’d promised I’d be there. But I forgot the date.

                I came home the night my proposal was rejected. I felt like a failure—like I hadn’t just lost my job, but let down an entire team. I was emotionally and mentally wrecked. So I crashed. Slept through the evening. I didn’t check my phone. Didn’t see her texts or calls. I couldn’t face anything else.

                When Connie came home that night, I was just sitting on the couch watching TV.
She asked me how my day had gone. I lied. Said it was fine. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. Not yet.

The next day, she didn’t talk to me. And instead of asking why, I jumped to the worst conclusion—I assumed she was done with me. That night, she texted:

                “We need to have a serious talk when I get home.” Those words. That phrase. My last two relationships had ended with it.

                I panicked. Spiraled and I snapped. Told her to just say what she needed to say—or we could break up now and be done with it.

                I knew about her abandonment issues. I knew how much she’d been hurt in the past.
And still, I said the exact thing that would confirm her deepest fear.
So she ended it. Just like that.

                It took me two full days to realize how badly I’d screwed up. I missed her big moment—the one she’d been looking forward to for months. And worse? I knew she would’ve understood. She always did. If I had just told her the truth, if I had let her in… she would’ve stood by me.

                But I didn’t. In trying to protect her—I ended up hurting her worse.

                “Why do you always seem accepting of my dreams? You don’t call me crazy. You never say it’s weird. But I can tell they affect you.”
My throat went dry. I scrambled to think of a response that wouldn’t make me sound insane. I still wanted to spend my life with her once we got a little older. I had planned on telling her the truth—but timing mattered. I couldn’t risk losing her all over again.

                “How come you always know what to say? Not just the right thing—but the thing I needed before I knew I needed it. And you’re mature. You’ve always been so mature. Like… I don’t know. My dad even likes you. He always calls you an old soul.”

                I closed the notebook slowly.

                “Is there something about you you’re afraid to tell me?” she asked.

                I hesitated.

                That alone was probably enough of an answer.

                I let the silence stretch between us. A dozen half-truths rose and fell in my throat, before I decided what to say.
               

                “There is something about me,” I finally sighed. “Something I can’t explain easily.”
Connie didn’t flinch. She just waited.
                 

                “I don’t know what to call it,” I continued. “The truth is,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be, “sometimes I remember things before they happen too.”
                Her eyes widened. She leaned in, like my words had unlocked something she hadn’t dared hope for.
                “So… you’re like me?”
                I almost said yes. Almost told her everything, instead I let out of breath and said,

                “Not quite, I don’t think so. For me it’s like I’ve lived parts of this life before, like I’ve made mistakes and I have the option of correcting that mistake.

                Her eyes shimmered. “That’s exactly how I feel. Like I’m walking through echoes.”
                I gave her a small smile. “Walking through echoes…” I repeated, “I like that.”

                She nodded slowly, eyes still on mine. “So you’re still not going to tell me everything?”

I just looked at her.
                “Okay,” she said. Reading my face “But I’m not giving up.”
                And something about the way she said it made me believe she wouldn’t.

 I walked home with her that afternoon, the blue notebook tucked under my arm. Every so often, she’d glance at me like she was still turning my words over in her head—testing them, weighing them against her own dreams. By the time we parted ways, my chest felt both heavier and lighter at the same time. Heavier because I’d cracked the door open. Lighter because, for the first time, I thought maybe she’d still accept me if she knew the whole truth.

                                                                *

                I didn’t expect Patrick to show up at the next Bench meeting—heck, I wasn’t expecting him at all. In my previous life, he barely hung out with me unless he had no other choice, or whenever he was feeling brotherly, which was about as common as a blue moon.

                To my astonishment, he strolled in like he’d been coming since the beginning, dropped a plastic grocery bag on the table, and started unpacking juice boxes and a stack of snacks ranging from Crunch bars to Reese’s Cups to chips.

                Jordan blinked. “Uh… hey?”

                Patrick shrugged. “Thought you guys could use some backup. Plus, my little brother wouldn’t shut up about how cool this was. Figured I should see it for myself.”

                I tried to hide my shock. I failed.

                He didn’t say much—just sat in the back, listened while Jordan talked, even chuckled once when someone made a joke about math being emotional abuse.   

                Afterwards, Patrick pulled out a new role-playing game he wanted us all to play. It was the same one he’d gotten me into in my previous life—Werewolf: The Apocalypse, a companion to another game called Vampire: The Masquerade. In Werewolf, players create their own werewolves who fight vampires and an evil entity called the Wyrm. Needless to say, I loved it. In my first life, werewolves had always been my favorite supernatural monster, and this game had even been instrumental in helping me form a strong friendship with Matt Gordon, who I’d meet in another year. Matt owned and ran Vampire: The Masquerade.

                In the original timeline, I first met Matt on the bus. He was the new kid, talking to everyone, until I overheard him mention Vampire. I sat up in my seat and told him I owned and had played Werewolf—a gift from my brother. That one exchange sparked my longest-lasting friendship.

                “What’s that?” Humberto González asked now, eyeing the book. Humberto was one of our newest members—a nice kid who’d just moved here. He’d joined the Bench Kids hoping to make friends, and he’d succeeded in spades, mostly thanks to his optimistic, humorous attitude toward life.

                Patrick’s grin spread wide. He practically vibrated with excitement as he spun toward the blackboard and, in giant jagged letters, wrote WEREWOLF: THE APOCALYPSE—like a movie title screen already playing in his head. Chalk dust clung to his hands. His eyes had that very specific Patrick energy, the kind that usually meant someone was about to get roped into something weird and probably amazing. Despite our differences in my first life, Patrick was an excellent Game Master.

                He clapped once, sharp and loud. “Alright, weirdos. You’ve been invisible long enough. Time to awaken your inner rage monsters.”

                I glanced at Connie. She raised a skeptical eyebrow but stayed quiet. Jordan was already  elbow-deep in the snack stash, unwrapping a Reese’s like it was sacred ritual.

                Patrick underlined WEREWOLF like he was carving it into stone. “This,” he declared, “is not your grandma’s fairy tale. You don’t sparkle. You don’t howl at the moon for funsies. You fight—to save the world, to protect the wild, to punch pollution in the face.”

                Connie smirked. “Is this one of those games where we all turn into murder puppies?”

                Without missing a beat, Patrick pointed at her. “Exactly! But noble, emotionally complex murder puppies. Think angry eco-warriors with fur and fangs. You’re Garou—Gaia’s chosen. That’s Mother Earth, by the way. The planet’s dying. And who’s to blame? The Wyrm. This cosmic force of corruption and rot, hiding behind corporate suits, toxic waste, and probably school cafeteria pizza.”

                Jordan raised a hand, deadpan. “So we’re just angry werewolves?”

                Patrick turned to him, eyes wide like Jordan had just asked the most important question in the universe. “You’re heroes, man. But broken ones. Every Garou is torn—between the human world, the wolf inside, and the spirit realm whispering secrets only madmen understand.”

                He grabbed the chalk again, sketching rough circles and arrows—tribes, breeds, moon phases—while rambling about anarchist punks, techno-shamans with floppy disk slots in their souls, and some tribe that lived in trailers and punched spirits for fun.

                “And your moon phase? That decides your destiny,” Patrick went on, pointing to each of us like he was casting a movie. “Full moon? Fighter. New moon? Sneaky chaos gremlin. Crescent moon? You talk to ghosts, bro.”

                I watched the way he paced, how he talked with his hands, how his voice rose and fell like he was preaching some half-remembered gospel. This wasn’t just a game for him. This was his language. His armor. His howl into a world that rarely let him be loud without punishing him for it.

                “And yeah,” he said, softer now, “you’re losing. The world’s going up in flames, and the Garou are barely holding the line. But they don’t stop. Even when they know they’ll fail, they keep fighting. They don’t wait for someone else to fix things. They rage, they cry, they protect what they can.”

                The chalk fell with a soft clink against the tray, like a mic drop.

                “So? Who’s in? I’ve got dice, character sheets, and just enough trauma to make this whole thing awesome.”

                A quiet beat settled over the room. Then I said, “Only if I get to be the chaos gremlin.”

                Jordan laughed. Connie bit back a smile. Just like that, we had a pack.

                Afterwards, Patrick asked everyone for descriptions of their characters, promising to draw portraits for each one. Even he seemed surprised by their enthusiasm. Every kid took their time, describing poses, outfits, scars, and expressions. And Patrick—true to his word—showed up at later sessions with sketches in hand, giving them a visual of their alter egos. I couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d been planning this without telling me. But I beamed with pride, watching him take notes with the kind of focus most people reserved for exams.

                After the meeting, as kids trickled out, he pulled me aside by the vending machines.
                “You always act like you know how everything turns out,” he said.
                I smirked. “And?”
                “And lately… you’ve been hoping.”

                It caught me off guard.

                He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “Dread makes you cautious. Hope makes you dangerous—in a good way. You should keep it.”

                The words sank deeper than I wanted to admit.
Because I realized he was right. Connie had said she wasn’t giving up. And Patrick was telling me not to, either—not on her, not on the Bench Kids, not on this second chance.

                                                                                                *

                The next day, his words were still rattling around in my head when I saw Malik.
He was the new kid—small for his age, quiet in that way that made people assume too much. At lunch, he sat alone at the far end of a table, tray untouched, shoulders hunched.

                It was too familiar.
Because I’d been there—sitting alone at a table in my first life, pretending I didn’t care, pretending the silence didn’t sting. I’d built little walls out of milk cartons and half-eaten sandwiches, hoping no one would notice how badly I wanted someone to sit with me.

                I felt the pull to step in, to do what I always did—fix it, lead, make it better. I was halfway to standing when Jordan and Humberto beat me to it.

                “Yo,” Jordan said, sliding his tray across from Malik’s. “You into video games? What’s your go-to?”

                Malik looked up, startled. Mumbled something about Mortal Kombat.

                “Cool. You should come by after school. A few of us play. Loser brings snacks for next meet up though, that’s the rule,” Humberto added with a grin.

                By the time I got there, two other Bench Kids had joined them, filling the gaps at the table. One slid Malik a juice box without comment.

                From the corner of my eye, I caught Connie watching the scene too. She glanced at me—noticing, somehow, the way my shoulders eased, the way I stood a little taller. Like she understood this meant more to me than I’d ever admit.

                And that’s when I realized—Patrick was right. Hope did suit me better than dread. And hope wasn’t just mine anymore. They didn’t need me to lead them now. This thing we’d started was alive, breathing on its own. We weren’t just a group anymore. We were a movement. Small, sure—but that’s how revolutions begin.

                That night, I found Patrick sketching in the living room.
                “Whatcha working on?” I asked.

                He turned the notebook toward me. A comic panel: a hill under stars. A girl crying. A boy holding out a boombox.

                My heart stopped.

                “Thought it’d make a cool scene,” he said. “Inspired by something I heard Connie say.”

                “It’s… perfect.”

                He shrugged like it was nothing. But it wasn’t. It was everything.

                Later, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I realized something simple and terrifying: the future was changing. And not because I was forcing it—because I was finally letting other people shape it too.

Chapter 21: The New Kid (Again)

                In my first life, ninth grade had been survival mode—keep your head down, don’t draw attention, and hope nobody noticed you were lost.

                This time? I wasn’t just looking to survive. I was hunting for moments that mattered.

                The Bench Kids had changed things. We weren’t just a handful of “the quiet ones” anymore—we had a presence. A heartbeat. A reason for people to notice us without pity.

That’s why I spotted him right away.

                He sat alone at the far corner of the cafeteria, spiral notebook open, pencil tapping a syncopated rhythm only he seemed to hear. Short black hair, wire-rimmed glasses, a backpack that looked like it had been through three natural disasters.

                Matt Gordon.

                In my first life, I’d met him on the bus halfway through the year. He’d been the “new kid who talks to everyone” until I overheard him mention Vampire: The Masquerade. That single conversation had lit a friendship that lasted decades.

                Seeing him now was like spotting a character from an old movie walking into a reboot—same face, same energy, but the story wasn’t the same this time. I had the advantage. I was halfway to his table with my lunch tray when Connie’s voice floated up beside me.

                “You’re doing the thing,” she said.

                “What thing?”

                “The thing where you get that look—like you already know someone before you’ve met them.” Her eyes flicked toward Matt. “So, who is he?”

                “New kid,” I said casually. Maybe too casually.

                She smirked. “Mm-hm. You’re collecting people again. Careful—you’re gonna run out of chairs. We already outgrew the classroom for our little meetings.”

                Which was true—we’d moved the Bench Kids to the library after our numbers exploded. Over forty members now, with more joining every week. I had more friends than I’d ever had before.

                Before I could answer, Patrick’s voice cut through the cafeteria.

                “Yo, lil bro! Bring my dice tonight—not the cursed set. I’m not getting another botch like last time!”

                A few kids laughed. Matt’s pencil stilled. He tilted his head—he’d heard.

                “Cursed dice?” he asked as I passed his table.

                “They’re not cursed. Patrick just rolls like garbage whenever he’s not running a game,” I said.

                “What game?”

                Hook, line, sinker.

                “Werewolf: The Apocalypse. My brother and I take turns running a campaign. You play?”

                His eyes lit up—just like I remembered. “Not Werewolf. But I’ve played Vampire: The Masquerade.”

                Bingo.

                “I’ve got Werewolf,” I said—same words as before, same inflection. “My brother got me into it.”

                The déjà vu hit like a chord from a song you hadn’t heard in years—warm and familiar. But this time, I wasn’t just remembering the scene. I was rewriting it.

                We ended up talking through most of lunch. Games, movies, music, why our school’s pizza was probably an OSHA violation. He was sharp, funny, unapologetically nerdy in a way that made you feel like you had permission to be too.

                At some point, I glanced across the cafeteria. Connie was watching us, chin in her palm, that half-smile she got when she was trying to figure me out. When my eyes met hers, she mouthed, stray. On the surface, it was teasing—our little in-joke for anyone I “adopted” into the group.
                There was something else behind it too. A quick, measuring glance at Matt before she looked away, as if filing him under probably safe… for now.

                As the bell rang, Matt slung his backpack over his shoulder. “So… your brother run open games? Or is this one of those ‘you gotta be cool enough to join’ things?”

                “The bar for ‘cool enough’ is pretty low,” I grinned. “You in?”

                Half a second of thought. “I’m in.”

                In my first life, Matt had been one of the rare people who saw me—not the mask, not the defense mechanisms, just me. This time, I’d make damn sure he never doubted I saw him too.

                Connie caught up to me at my locker.

                “So,” she said, leaning against the metal door, “is he joining your little wolf cult?”

                “First—it’s not a cult, it’s a role-playing game. Second—you play with us, and your character is a werewolf shaman, of the Children of Gaia.”

                “Mhm.” She crossed her arms. “You like him.”

                “He’s cool,” I said.

                “No, I mean—you like him. Not like-like, but you’re already planning how to keep him around.”

                I shut my locker. “He’s gonna be important.”

                Her eyebrows arched. “That a feeling?”

                “Something like that.”

                She studied me for a beat, then smiled. “Good. You’re better when you’ve got people to look after… and people who’ll look after you.”

                I didn’t say it out loud, but I thought it: This time, I’ve got both.

                Chapter 22: Threads and Tethers                 Freshman year moved fast. By October, the Bench Kids had outgrown the bench, the library table, even the back corner of the cafeteria. We weren’t just “the quiet ones” anymore—we were everywhere. Which, as it turned out, wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

                The group had ballooned to more than fifty kids. Fifty. What started as a handful of strays had become a parade. Suddenly there were arguments over who sat where, inside jokes some people didn’t get, and whispers about who belonged and who didn’t.

                The Bench had gotten too big for Jordan, Patrick, and me to run alone. It wasn’t just a club anymore—it was becoming a movement. Kids joined for all kinds of reasons: curiosity, loneliness, redemption, the need for acceptance. I made sure everyone who came looking for belonging found it. But Jordan pointed out something we couldn’t ignore: a few of the newer members had once been bullies themselves.

                That’s when we made a rule.
                We listen. We don’t judge. We ask questions to understand, not to belittle.      Cliques were still starting to form, and I knew we had to act fast. That’s when Patrick dropped a bomb.

                “New rule,” he announced one Saturday afternoon, tossing a stack of dice onto the table a couple hours before our meeting.

                “We’re not the only ones running games or leading group talks anymore.”

                I frowned. “What do you mean?”

                “I mean,” Patrick said, “if you always run it, you’re the alpha forever. And if Jordan or I always run it, same deal. But a pack only works if everyone learns how to howl on their own.”

                The words hit me harder than I expected. They reminded me of a lesson from my first life. Back then, when I’d been promoted to training lead at Spectrum, I thought I was helping by swooping in and solving problems for my team. Being their hero. Later I realized I was robbing them of the chance to be their own heroes. So I learned to guide instead—let them find the answer, then praise them when they did. That built confidence, real confidence. Some of them even told me later it changed how they saw themselves.

                Patrick had stumbled into the same truth, and I knew he was right. Before anyone could object, I clapped him on the shoulder.

                “Patrick, you’re a genius,” I said, grinning. “We’ve been the leaders long enough. The Bench doesn’t need alphas—it needs voices. If this is going to last after we graduate, it has to grow beyond us. Let’s make it a movement, not just a club.”

                Jordan leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. “If you’d told me this at the start, I’d have laughed. But now? Yeah. Imagine ten years from now—you’re at work, and someone mentions their kid joined a Bench group. Or you’re on vacation, and you bump into someone who runs one in another town. Why not? It doesn’t have to die with us.”

                Connie crossed her arms, half-smiling. “You guys really think it’ll go that far?”

                Jordan met her gaze. “Why not? I started this as a joke, just to see what would happen. Now I’ve got more friends than I ever thought I would. It’s real. And it’s bigger than us.”

                She sighed. “I just don’t want to run—”

                “Great,” Patrick cut in. “Next week, Connie runs a game. Then Jordan, then Humberto, then Matt. My brother and I will back you up if you need it.”

                Connie paled, and I gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. You got this.”

                “You promise you won’t leave me hanging?” she asked quietly.

                “I promise.”

                Patrick clapped his hands. “The goal isn’t to copy us. Find your own voice. Be weird. Be creative. I’ll help with visuals if you need them, but don’t expect masterpieces every week—I’ve got projects too.”

                “So why start with us?” Humberto asked.

                “Because before the end of the year,” Patrick said, “I want all of you to feel comfortable running a game. Then we’ll open it up more. Smaller groups, more voices, less pressure on us three. Everyone gets their turn to be in charge. Everyone gets heard.”

                Matt surprised everyone by volunteering first.
He wasn’t loud about it—just raised his hand after Patrick laid out the plan and said, “I’ll run one.”

                Patrick blinked. “You sure? It’s not as easy as it looks.”

                Matt gave a small shrug. “I’ve got an idea. I just… wanna try.”

                                I looked around at the faces in the room—Connie, Jordan, Humberto, Matt. They didn’t look like strays anymore. They looked like leaders in the making. Of course, I suspected Matt would rise to the occasion, and I knew he’d exceed every expectation. Connie was strong and brave, but she often worried about what she couldn’t control; this would teach her that she could lead in her own right and didn’t need to follow someone else’s path. And for the first time, I thought: maybe this thing really could outlive us.

                The next week, Connie sat in the Game Master’s chair, notebook in front of her, chewing on her pencil.
“Okay,” she muttered. “So, you’re… werewolves. Except you’re also… um… attending prom?”

                Jordan nearly choked on his soda. “This is the best campaign already.”

                Connie rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. And by the time she described the football field bathed in moonlight and a vampire DJ spinning records that whispered secrets, everyone was hooked.

                For me, it was fascinating to watch her take control. She started off shaky and unsure of herself, prompting me to mouth the words, I believe in you.
She still stumbled here and there, but as the players got into the game, her confidence soared. By the end of her campaign she hardly needed my help at all—I just clarified the rules occasionally, and even that became more and more rare.

                Later, Jordan took a turn. He introduced the group to Dungeons & Dragons, a game his uncle had taught him. In my previous life, Matt had been the one to introduce me to it—a game I still played right up until my life reset. I could see Matt’s eyes light up the moment Jordan pulled out the books.

                Jordan’s game was sharper, darker, full of twists and moral choices. At one point, he leaned over the table, voice low. “You can save the village, or you can save your friend.  But you don’t have time for both.” Half the table groaned in frustration; the other half cheered.

                Even Humberto ran a one-shot. His was pure chaos—half comedy, half disaster. He narrated everything with exaggerated voices, at one point describing a werewolf mall cop chasing us on a Segway. By the end, we were crying with laughter.

                Then came Matt. He showed up with a backpack stuffed like he was moving in. Out came a binder, hand-drawn maps, and what looked like half the school’s supply of index cards.

                “Okay,” he said, clearing his throat, “so… welcome to the city of shadows.”

                His voice was tentative at first, but then something shifted. The theater kid in him slipped into gear, and suddenly his narration had weight. The cafeteria table wasn’t a cafeteria table anymore—it was cobblestone streets, flickering neon signs, fog curling at the edges of alleyways. His story wasn’t about dice rolls or fights, but about choices: Who do you protect when you can’t protect everyone? What do you sacrifice to keep your place in the pack?

                Humberto leaned forward like he was watching a movie. Connie skeptical at first—was hooked within minutes. Even Patrick, who’d usually jump in with jokes or corrections, stayed quiet, letting Matt’s story breathe.

                For me, it was more than just a game. Watching Matt weave his world felt like watching someone find their stage for the first time. He didn’t have to choose between jock or band kid, theater geek or gamer—here, he could be all of it at once. And the rest of us got to see him for who he really was.

                By the end of the night, when the last dice hit the table, the room was buzzing with that specific kind of magic you only get when a story lands. Kids were already begging him to run the next one.

                Matt laughed, shaking his head. “We’ll see. GMing’s harder than it looks.”

                But I could see the glow in his eyes—the kind you only get when someone finally feels seen.

                It struck me then: in my first life, Matt had been one of the few who truly saw me.
This time, I got to return the favor.

                Watching them was like watching sparks catch fire. Everyone had their own style, their own voice. The game wasn’t just mine and Patrick’s anymore—it belonged to all of us.

                It felt like handing over a torch and realizing the flame didn’t dim—it multiplied. Each kid carried a piece of it forward, lighting up corners I could never reach on my own.

                For the first time, I realized the Bench wasn’t just surviving. Kids were asking to bring in their own games, or to rerun campaigns we’d already played. And I smiled to myself, knowing the group was finally leading itself. It didn’t matter if it split into smaller circles of friends—the heart of it remained. We were all learning that the differences between us were smaller than they seemed, measured only in the number of our tears. Deep down, we all wanted the same things: to feel loved, to be valued, to be accepted.

                Chapter 23: The night they listen.
                Ninth grade was just starting to feel steady when the first whisper found me. I was stacking dice back into their bag after a Bench meeting when Mrs. Anders, the librarian, cleared her throat in that “I’m about to scold you” way.

                “What exactly are you kids doing in here?” she asked, arms folded tight.

                “Uh… playing games?” I said, caught off guard.

                She held up a notebook someone had left behind — jagged sketches of werewolves snarling at a city on fire. Patrick’s work, I was in awe in how much he had improved over the years, he had always been a an amazing artist, but this time around, I wouldn’t let him give up on his dream of becoming a comic book artist and he was well on his way.

                “This doesn’t look like a game. It looks… darker. You know there have been complaints?”

                “Complaints?” My stomach sank.

                She lowered her voice. “Some parents and students are saying the Bench isn’t just a club. That you’re dabbling in witchcraft. Satanism. I don’t believe it, but… the rumor’s out there.”

                It should’ve been funny. Witchcraft? Satanism? We were rolling dice and arguing over who had to got what loot, or who had rolled better than who. But, that’s how it starts, one parent asking questions. One teacher frowning. One rumor slipping between lockers like smoke, before catching in the wind and spreading.

                By the next week, Humberto joked about us being “the cult in the cafeteria,” and half the table laughed while the other half looked nervous. Jordan muttered, “Yeah, one of my relatives said we’re summoning demons now. I told her the only demon here is cafeteria meatloaf.” He said stabbing the meatloaf with his fork, like he was slaying a vampire.

                Everyone chuckled. But under the laughter, I felt the shift.

                I’d lived this kind of fear before. Adults terrified of what they didn’t understand. And I knew rumors had teeth sharper than any werewolf we could dream up and this time, I wasn’t sure laughter would be enough to stop the bite. I knew from the past, I’d have to do something fast, before things escalated any further than they already had. But now I was aware, and as I looked around the cafeteria, I noticed some tables kept shooting us dirty looks, while still the vast majority had ignored us, but enough to make me see the looming problem.

                By Friday, the whispers weren’t whispers anymore.
Two kids didn’t show up to the meeting Humberto told me their parents had banned them from  

                “The cult.” Jordan laughed it off at first, but I could see the worry tightening in his shoulders like he was bracing for a hit.

                “This is gonna spread,” I muttered, pacing by the library window. “We can’t just wait for it to blow over. If we let everyone else write the story for us, they’ll decide who we are before we even open our mouths.”

                Connie tapped her pencil against her notebook, her eyes narrowed. “So what? You want us to… what, hold a press conference or something?”

                “Not a press conference,” I said. “Something better. We talk to them. Directly. Parents, teachers whoever’s listening. We tell them what the Bench really is.”

                Matt looked up from his notebook, his pencil hovering in midair. “Face-to-face?”

                “Yeah. No rumors. No second-hand nonsense. If a parent’s got a problem, we sit down with them with their kid right there and show them what this group actually does. That we’re not hiding anything. That it’s about being seen, about helping each other. And if that’s not enough… we go bigger. A town hall.”

                Jordan let out a low whistle. “You’re serious.”

                “Dead serious.”

                Connie looked around the table, then back at me. “It’s risky. But… it’s honest. And maybe honesty’s the only thing strong enough to beat fear.”

                So that’s what we did.

                The next two weeks were brutal. We went from game nights and laughter to kitchen tables where every word felt like walking a tightrope. Parents sat across from us, arms folded, suspicion in their eyes like we’d dragged their kids into something dangerous. Some didn’t even bother to hide their contempt asking if we were summoning spirits, dabbling in devil worship, “messing with things we didn’t understand.”

                I was grateful Matt came with us. He was always better at swaying people than I was, and sitting beside him reminded me of the friend I thought I’d lost to time. In my first life, he and I had been inseparable. But somewhere along the way, distance and time had eroded that bond—we went from daily conversations, to once in a while, to maybe checking in once or twice a year. At those tables, standing shoulder to shoulder again, I realized the core of our friendship had never left.

                We explained that the Bench Kids wasn’t just about games or goofing off. It was about community. We talked—about everything. Our hopes, our fears, our dreams. We helped each other with homework, tutored one another, reminded each other to eat lunch when the cafeteria felt like enemy territory. Our motto was simple: we listen, we don’t judge. We ask questions to understand but we don’t judge.

                Jordan told them how he’d started the group for kids like him, kids who had rough home lives. He said he wanted everyone to feel welcome and included, because talking through the hard stuff had helped him, and he wanted to give that back. You could feel the room shift just a little when he said that like one or two parents weren’t expecting that kind of honesty from a kid.

                When the questions turned to the games—sharp, accusing—Matt leaned forward and spoke with a calm I envied.

                When the questions shifted to the games we played sharp, accusing Matt leaned forward and spoke with a calm I envied.

                “Hey, I get it. You want to protect your kids. But role-playing games aren’t evil. They’re just storytelling. Like in the old days, except everyone gets to join in. It’s no different than kids playing pretend, or when you watch a movie and imagine what you would’ve done if you were there. That’s all this is storytelling. With rules and dice to keep it fair. One person sets the scene, and the rest of us play our characters in it. That’s it. My dad’s a Marine, and so was his dad. If these games were dangerous, they wouldn’t be in our house. But my dad plays with his buddies he even taught me. And honestly? It brought us closer.”

                Some parents still frowned, but a few shifted in their chairs. One mother who’d been glaring so hard I thought she might burn a hole through me actually uncrossed her arms. Her eyes flicked down to the table, like maybe she was embarrassed she’d assumed the worst. I jumped in quickly, trying to hold the ground Matt had gained.

                “The cool part is it teaches real skills. Teamwork. Problem-solving. Math—there’s actually a ton of math. And it sparks creativity, even empathy. It helps kids who are shy find their voice, because they get to try out being bold in a safe way.”

                And Connie—Connie always landed the last punch. Her voice was steady, almost gentle, but impossible to ignore.

                “People misunderstand these games. But really, it’s no different than acting in a play, or writing a story, or just swapping stories with friends. At the end of the day, it’s about laughing, learning, and creating something together. That’s all it is.”

                That’s when it happened. A dad who’d been drilling us with questions leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath, like the fight had gone out of him. Another parent murmured, “Huh,” under their breath, not quite ready to admit we had a point, but no longer looking at us like villains either.

                Not every parent softened. Some stayed cold, convinced we were playing with fire. But enough of them listened. Enough of them saw us not as a threat, but as kids trying to make something good out of the scraps we’d been given.

                And then came the town hall. We’d hoped to win over the last few parents we hadn’t convinced, and maybe some of the ones who didn’t trust our little group. But deep down, I knew the truth: they hated and feared it because they didn’t understand it.

                The auditorium smelled like floor polish and old coffee. Rows of folding chairs creaked under the weight of parents and teachers, their conversations a low, buzzing hum. Some faces were curious. Others suspicious. A few already looked like they’d made up their minds.

                It was more people than I’d ever seen outside a football game. Teachers, parents, kids—some curious, some skeptical, some flat-out angry.

                I gripped the sides of the podium. Connie, Jordan, Matt, and Patrick stood behind me. The rest of the Bench filled the front rows, a sea of nervous shoulders and tapping sneakers.

                I took a breath.
                “Thank you for coming. I know you have questions, concerns, and doubts about the Bench Kids. We’re here tonight to answer them.”

                “This started with nothing more than a bench outside the school,” I said, palms sweating against the wood. “A place to sit. A place not to feel invisible. But it grew, because kids kept showing up. Because we needed it. Because we needed each other.”

                I stepped back. “But it’s not just my story. It’s theirs too.”

                Jordan went first. Hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, he leaned into the mic like he was sharing a secret.

               
                Jordan went first. Hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, he leaned into the mic like he was sharing a secret.

                “Look, I didn’t think the Bench would take off the way it did. I thought it’d just be a cool idea, because when I was little, I had a friend who always stuck by me even when my dad was drunk and hitting me. That friend” he glanced at me “spoke up and got me out. I’m happier now than I ever thought possible. I have more friends than I can count. And I wanted other kids to have that too. That’s what the Bench is: a place where people can feel safe. I’ve never had this much reason to actually be here. And I don’t just mean here at school. I mean alive.”

                The words hung heavy in the room. Jordan shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie and went back to his seat.

                Connie followed. Shoulders straight, notebook in hand, she read:
                “I used to think my voice didn’t matter. That nobody cared what I had to say. But this group gave me space to speak. It gave me confidence to write and share. I’m not just a background character anymore. I’m part of something. And every time I hear someone else say the Bench helped them, I feel less alone. And I think that’s what all of us want—to not feel alone.”

                Then came Matt. He carried himself like he was stepping onstage, notebook under his arm.
                “I’m a lot of things—band kid, drama geek, wannabe artist, sometimes even a jock. But before the Bench, it always felt like I had to pick one mask to wear. Here, I don’t have to choose. I can be all of it. And I’ve seen the same thing happen to everyone else. We’re not pretending. We’re not performing. We’re just… us. And that’s rare.”

                He held up a drawing: kids around a table, dice and snacks scattered across it, their shadows on the wall behind them—wolves standing shoulder to shoulder. The crowd murmured softly.

                Humberto bounded up next, grinning ear to ear.
                “Okay, I know this is supposed to be serious, but honestly? These are the first friends I’ve ever had who laugh with me instead of at me. And that’s enough. That’s everything. Because when you’re laughing, you’re not lonely. And for a long time, I was really lonely. I acted out to get attention. Now my teachers love me, and my parents have never been more proud.”

                One by one, more kids spoke.

                Lilly a girl I often saw sitting with Humberto went next. Her voice trembled as she said:
                “Before the Bench, I was failing math. Now I’ve got a B, because people here sat with me and didn’t make me feel stupid.”

                She was followed by Trent, a tall, wiry junior who had joined the Bench earlier in the year.
                “I used to be a bit of a bully. I know I picked on a lot of the kids in this group. Then one day I decided to go to one of their meetups. I don’t know why they let me in, but they did. And I realized the stuff I thought was funny was really just hurting people I didn’t understand or want to know. But I’ve learned I was wrong, we’re all just us, and I don’t want to be the person I used to be anymore. Also, I used to be a D-and-C student. The Bench inspired me to actually try in my classes, and now I’ve got an A-and-B average, and my parents are really proud of you.”

                Then came Andrew. He had always been quiet, and when he spoke, I couldn’t believe his confession. But that’s how depression works—it hides.
                “I was planning on ending my life. I’d been bullied. I struggled in my classes. I was tired, and I thought I had nothing left. But the day before I was going to… one of the Bench Kids asked if I was okay. That’s it. Just that. And the next thing I knew, I was sitting with them in group. I didn’t talk at first, but everyone made sure to include me. When they brought out the games, I didn’t even play at first. But they encouraged me. And when I finally joined in, I laughed. I actually laughed. And that night, I didn’t want to die anymore.”

                By the time the kids finished, the auditorium was silent. Not cold silent—listening silent. The kind that meant the words had landed.

                I returned to the podium.
                “The Bench isn’t about games. It isn’t about cliques. It’s about giving kids a place to belong. And I think that’s worth protecting.”

                For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like we were on trial, I felt like we were building something.

                After the crowd broke and the auditorium emptied, the three of us lingered in the parking lot under the glow of the streetlights. The air smelled faintly of rain, sharp and clean after the heat of so many bodies in one room.

                Connie leaned against the hood of Patrick’s car, arms folded. Her usual sharpness was gone, replaced with something softer.
                “You know,” she said, “for a minute in there, I thought it was going to fall apart. That they’d laugh, or worse just walk out.” She glanced at me. “But they didn’t. They listened, they actually listened.”

                Patrick kicked a pebble across the asphalt, hands shoved in his pockets.
                “People don’t listen unless they want to,” he said. Then, quieter: “I think tonight proved they actually want to.”

                Connie tilted her head back toward the stars, her voice almost a whisper.
                “I used to think adults had all the answers. But maybe… maybe this is us finding ours.”

                Patrick smiled faintly at that, something rare and unguarded.
                “Yeah,” he said. “And maybe we’re not just kids sitting on a bench anymore.”

                The three of us stood there a little longer, saying nothing, just breathing in the night and the weight of what we’d built—fragile, imperfect, but real.

                After a beat, I turned to Patrick.
                “I think you’re mistaken,” I said gently. “It’s not that people don’t want to listen—it’s that listening is harder than we realize. It’s more than hearing words. It means pausing your thoughts, setting aside your judgments, and letting someone else’s experience reach you. Most people only hear what fits their world, not what’s really being said. That’s why, when someone truly listens, even for a moment, it feels unforgettable.”

                Chapter 24: When the past found us.

                Following the town hall, the Bench kids didn’t just grow—they exploded. Jordan and several others were interviewed by local news, and within weeks, more than a hundred kids had joined. What started as a few voices on a bench had become a movement, loud enough that the whole town had to pay attention.

                I chose to step back, letting Patrick, Jordan, Connie, and Humberto take the lead. With my knowledge of the future, I knew staying in the shadows was safer. But that didn’t dull the pride swelling in me as I watched the Bench kids transform from a feel-good story into a force.

                It felt like the beginning of something bigger than us something that might outlast high school, outlast doubt, maybe even outlast time itself.

            Connie and I had grown closer. Despite my best efforts to keep us just friends until graduation, the line kept blurring. I’d catch myself flirting, or brushing her hand a little too long. Tonight was no different—I was walking her home, our fingers entwined, the quiet between us weighted with something unspoken.

                We’d been talking about her latest appearance on Fox News when she suddenly went still, halting mid-step. Her hand tightened in mine.

                “I remember something,” she said softly. Her voice trembled, but her eyes didn’t leave mine. “Not a flash. Not a dream, or just a feeling—a real memory. I think… I think maybe I lived this life before, but everything was so different. I remember you. We were living together. We fought, and weeks maybe months later, I found out what happened. You’d lost your job trying to save everyone else’s. I was driving, rushing to find you, to tell you I understood. Then there was an accident. I think… I think I died. And that’s why I can’t remember.” Her breath hitched, and she leaned closer, her forehead almost touching mine. “But it sounds insane, doesn’t it? None of that could be real… can it?”

                The words hit like thunder wrapped in silk terrifying, impossible, yet carrying a truth I couldn’t deny.

                “I think this is my do-over,” she whispered, so quietly it felt like the night itself had leaned in to listen. “But this time, I’m not here just to survive. I’m here to build something new.”

                Her eyes found mine again, burning with that same steady fire I’d seen in a hundred lifetimes of silence. She lifted her free hand and brushed her fingers along my cheek, as if to anchor me there with her.
                “You’re not my fate,” she breathed. “But you are my choice.”

                Something in me broke open. I drew her into me, pressing her hand to my lips as if it alone tethered me to this world. “You’re not crazy,” I told her, my voice shaking with more than certainty. “Not at all.”

                And then, under the streetlight’s fragile glow, she rested her forehead against mine, her breath warm and steady. When I finally told her everything—every truth I’d carried, every secret I’d tried to keep hidden, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she closed the last inch of distance between us, her lips finding mine in a kiss that felt less like a beginning and more like a memory finally restored.

                For the first time in either life, it didn’t feel like we were just rewriting our stories.
It felt like destiny had handed us the pen. And together, we were about to write the first chapter of everyone else’s new beginning.

                We stayed up for hours as I told her everything—how I’d woken up in the body of my two-year-old self, how I’d used my knowledge of the future to prevent tragedies and undo some of the mistakes I’d made in my previous life. I explained how Jordan had once been nothing more than a bully and a jerk, and how she and I weren’t supposed to meet until college. I told her about the fight that tore us apart back then, and how, after that, I never knew what became of her.

            Connie’s eyes shimmered as she listened, her thumb brushing over my knuckles every so often, grounding me when the memories grew heavy. When I admitted how lost I’d felt after our breakup in that other life, she looked away, blinking hard, like the thought of us ending had bruised her all over again.

                Then she shared her own truth—how dreams had haunted her for as long as she could remember, how déjà vu seemed to guide her choices, nudging her to change small things in her life. Her voice shook as she spoke, but there was relief in her eyes, too, as if hearing my story had finally given her dreams a place to belong.

                The more I spoke, the more her stories resonated, as if pieces of two puzzles were finally snapping together.

                I confessed that Patrick had already figured me out, and that my grandma knew as well. Connie went quiet for a moment, her brow furrowing, before she finally exhaled and squeezed my hand tighter. “I get why you didn’t tell me,” she whispered. “But I wish you had. I wish I’d known sooner.”

                There was hurt in her voice, but not distance. She didn’t let go. If anything, her grip grew stronger, as if to say that now the truth was out, nothing could pry us apart again.

                Chapter 25: The long road forward              

            Connie and I didn’t go to the same college—by choice. We wanted each other to have the chance to truly grow. We didn’t break up; we visited often, and we talked almost every day.

                I stayed local, earned my degree in education, and later a master’s in psychology. If I was going to keep steering kids away from cliffs, I wanted to know how to build better roads.

                At thirty-seven, Connie and I married under a crooked tree behind the old middle school. Not because it was beautiful. But because it was ours the place where the cracks first showed, and where we learned how to fill them.

                We danced barefoot in the grass, surrounded by people we’d once saved, and people who had, in turn, saved us. And in that moment, with the sunlight painting the horizon in gold, I thought about the first morning I woke up in that crib in 1985.
I thought about the weight. The confusion. The fear.

                And then I looked at her. My partner. My mirror. My co-author in this rewritten world.
                And I thought: Maybe we’re not here to change fate. Maybe we’re here to give people the courage to write their own. Love wasn’t just what bound Connie and me together—it was the ink that rewrote every story around us.

                I became the counselor I never had the one who noticed, who asked twice, who said, “You don’t have to go home to be safe.”
                Connie became a bestselling author. Her first book, When Stars Collide, told the story of two lovers fated to be together, torn apart by time, yet drawn back to each other by something deeper than destiny.

                Patrick found his place as an artist at DC Comics, even though his heart still leaned Marvel.
                Jordan stepped into politics and, against all odds, won the presidency in 2016.
                Humberto found happiness in the quiet corners of life, working customer service at Spectrum, content in ways most people spend their whole lives chasing.

                Matt and I stayed close. After his time in the Marines and after he reunited with his first love, Connie and I visited him. This time, I told him everything the future, the second chance, all of it. I promised him he would have children of his own, and when it came true, I became an uncle in more ways than one.

                As I neared the age I’d been when I went to sleep and woke up as a child again, the thought haunted me. But Connie just laughed softly and said, “If you get another do-over, just live it the same only a little better. Think of it as reliving the best week of your life.”

                And the Bench Kids? They blossomed. They carried hope into every corner of the world. Some became actors and used their platforms for acceptance and inclusion. Others quietly shaped lives in smaller, just-as-powerful ways.

                The truth was, it had never been about me.
                It was about all of us.
                It was about love—loud or quiet, fierce or patient—echoing through time, weaving us together, and teaching us how to heal.

                And standing with Connie, my forever constant, I knew:
                We hadn’t just rewritten my story.
                We’d rewritten the world.

                Epilogue: The Letter

            In an effort to help anyone else who might wake up one day as a child, I wrote a letter and posted it online—on Reddit, Instagram, and Twitter.

                It was addressed to whoever came next. Because deep down, I knew I wasn’t a fluke. I probably wouldn’t be the last.

                It read:                 Welcome back.
                You’re not crazy. You’re not alone.
                This time, you get to choose differently. This is your second chance to live it all over again. But let’s be honest—think things through a little more carefully than before.
You’re not here to save the world. You’re here to remind it that it’s worth saving.
Good luck. I’ll see you in the ripples.

                The House Was Asleep. Mostly. You could still hear the fridge hum its tired lullaby, and once in a while, a floorboard creaked like it had a secret to tell. I was wide awake, lying flat on my back, eyes locked on the bottom of my brother’s top bunk, letting my gaze crawl across the ceiling I knew too well. Same old water stain near the vent. Same crack that looked kind of like Texas if you squinted.

                And above me, Patrick—sprawled on top of the blanket instead of under it, wearing a hoodie with the hood up, headphones half-off, listening to The Doors on cassette. In my previous life, Patrick shaped my taste in music. I’d fallen in love with bands like The Doors, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin because of him.

                I didn’t think he knew I was awake, so when I heard his voice, it startled me.

                “Why’d you leave Oreos?” His voice was quiet, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask.

                I rolled onto my side. “Because I remember what it felt like when no one did stuff like that for me.”

                He was quiet again. But he didn’t brush it off or mock it. That was new.

                “You’re different,” he muttered after a beat. “Not just smarter. It’s like… you see stuff now. Like people. And how you sometimes know when things are gonna happen. It’s weird.”

                I almost laughed. “I’ve always seen people. Just used to be too scared to do anything about it.”

                Patrick shifted, sitting up and rubbing his eyes like he was trying to scrub away whatever made him say that out loud. “I don’t get why you even care. About me. Or this place. You should be like everyone else—trying to get away from here.”

                “I did,” I said, before I could stop myself.

                He leaned down from the top bunk to stare at me. “What?”

                I sat up, pulling the blanket around my shoulders like some kind of makeshift shield.

                “I mean, I used to want that. Used to think running was the only way to not drown in it. But I’m trying something different now.”

                He studied me for a second, like he was trying to decode a message I wasn’t quite spelling out.

                Then, softer than I expected, he said, “It’s not your job to fix everything.”

                “I know,” I whispered. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop showing up.”

                Patrick let out a breath—sharp and shaky. “You sound like Grandma.”

                “Good,” I said. “She’s usually right.”

                We sat in silence for a bit. Not the awkward kind. The kind that feels like something just shifted in the atmosphere. Like maybe we weren’t alone in our own little lifeboats anymore.

                He hopped down from the top bunk and wandered over to one of the books I’d been reading. Flipped it open, then closed it again. Then, out of nowhere, he tossed a sock at me. It smelled like death and betrayal.

                “Okay, that’s fair,” I said, flinging it back. “But seriously. Wash that.”

                He smirked. Just a little. But it was real.

                And I held onto that. Because sometimes, a smirk is the only breadcrumb you get to know someone’s still there. Still reachable. Still worth saving.

                Patrick yawned and stretched like he hadn’t slept in three days. He probably hadn’t. The guy had more shadows under his eyes than the basement.

                “You good if I turn out the light?” he asked, jerking a thumb.

                “Yeah, I’m good,” I said, laying back on my pillow.

                He grunted something like acknowledgment, then climbed the ladder with the grace of a tired jungle cat. The whole bed creaked like it might give out, and for a second, I imagined myself crushed to death by the weight of teenage angst. The thought of dying and starting over at two years old again low-key terrified me. More so because I didn’t know the rules—if there were rules. I didn’t know if dying meant the end, or if I’d just get reset like a cursed video game. Or worse—sent back to my old life, which now felt like a distant memory.

                “Don’t die up there,” I mumbled.

                “No promises,” he said through a yawn.

                We lay there in the dark for a minute, listening to the slow whirr of the box fan in the corner. The same one that made that little click-click every third rotation.

                Then, from above, his voice dropped again.

“Do you… remember stuff from when we were younger?”

                I blinked at the underside of his mattress. “Yeah. Some of it.” I lied, because I remembered everything now.

                “‘Cause sometimes you talk like… I dunno. Like you’ve been through more than you should’ve.”

                I stayed quiet, fingers tracing little spirals into my blanket.

                “It’s weird,” he added. “You say stuff like, ‘This too shall pass,’ or ‘You gotta meet people where they are.’ Like you’re some tired old therapist or something. Next thing I know, I’m gonna catch you making yourself coffee.”

                I snorted. “I am tired. And I like the smell of coffee. Hate the taste.”

                He chuckled. Then silence again.

                I waited, wondering if he’d drift off—but then he said something I hadn’t expected.

                “You said earlier you’re not trying to fix anything.” A pause. “But it feels like you are.”

                I hesitated. “I’m trying to remind you you’re worth more than you know. And more talented than you think. I mean, if you ever just slow down for like, a minute or two. You don’t always have to stay with Grandma Agnes or crash at friends’ places. I’m here. And we’re brothers. That should mean something.”

                For a long moment, there was nothing but the buzz of the fan and the soft creaks of the bed above me.

                Then, quietly, like he was afraid saying it too loud would undo it:

                “I missed this. Us.”

                I felt something crack open in my chest. Not in a bad way. In a way that felt like sunlight getting through.

                “Me too.”

                He sighed. “Don’t get sappy on me.”

                “No promises.”

                A beat.

                Then he muttered, “You’re still weird.”

                “Yup.”

                “But like… the good kind.”

                I smiled into my pillow. “You too.”And just like that, something old began to stitch itself into something new.

                The fan kept clicking. The bed creaked again as he finally stilled. I closed my eyes, listening to the soft, even rhythm of my brother breathing above me.

We didn’t fix everything that night. But for the first time in this life—or the last—I felt the weight I’d been carrying get a little lighter than before. Patrick had always been smart. Even as kids, he was insightful, clever, incredibly talented, and strong-willed.

                So, in the quiet of the night, feeling my brother finally let his guard down, wrapped in a blanket and a second chance—I finally let myself sleep.