The electric fan clicked every three seconds, just enough to remind her it was still working, but broken.
She lay flat on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Her mattress was shoved against the wall, unused for days now. The floor was cooler, more honest. Dust had begun to gather in the corners of the studio apartment, curling like tiny paper ghosts. She hadn't swept. She hadn't eaten. Not properly, anyway.
The rice cooker was unplugged. The fridge was empty. There were three instant noodle cups on the sink—one unfinished, one moldy, one long forgotten.
She blinked slowly.
Time didn't pass here. It staggered.
It was nearing 3:00 a.m. according to the microwave clock, blinking red against the dark. The rest of the city hummed quietly. Outside, some neighborhood cat wailed into the night like it had lost something. She understood the feeling.
Her name didn't matter much these days. She hadn't spoken it out loud in weeks. She was twenty-six. She had dropped out of college four years ago, and her parents had stopped calling sometime last Christmas. At first, they were angry. Now, she wasn't sure if they were just tired.
She'd thought once—just once—she'd do something meaningful. Maybe become a teacher. Or a painter. Or a poet. Something soft. But instead, life wore her down like a grindstone. Her body had learned how to exist without leaving the apartment. And her mind had learned how to shrink.
The therapists cost too much. The medicine gave her stomachaches. Motivation, she'd been told, would come after discipline. But discipline required sleep. And sleep required peace.
She hadn't had either in years.
There were no tears left, just a numbness so vast it felt like silence.
On the floor beside her sat a small bottle of over-the-counter pills. Half empty. The label was faded. She'd read that it wouldn't be instant, but it would be enough if she took enough. Quiet. Painless. No blood. No mess. Just… fading.
She had looked it up earlier—not out of curiosity, but certainty. No bridges. No blades. She didn't want to hurt. She only wanted to stop existing.
She'd lined the pills on a saucer like candy and swallowed them in pairs, one after the other, with lukewarm water and trembling hands.
Her body didn't resist. It barely noticed. Her stomach, hollow and sunken, accepted them like it accepted everything else—without protest.
She lay back down on the floor, arms limp at her sides.
Not a dramatic farewell. No note. No last call. She didn't think anyone would read it anyway.
She just took a breath.
Just one more. Her last.
"I wish—" she whispered.
It wasn't even a prayer. Just a breath against the dark.
"I wish… time would turn back. I'd change it. I swear I would."
The fan clicked. Then stopped.
Silence.
Then—
Bright light.
A pulse, like thunder under her skin. A sound she couldn't place. A warmth that wasn't from this world.
She didn't see anything. But she felt something unravel. Something snap.
And then—
She gasped.
The ceiling had changed.
So had the air.
It smelled like fabric softener. The kind her mother used. The light streaming in through the curtains was soft yellow, not neon. There were stickers on the wall. Her old bookshelf. A bag hanging by the doorknob with the initials SSC—her grade school.
Her hands—small. Too small.
She sat up.
Her voice, when she let out a shocked breath, was higher. Childlike.
She scrambled to the mirror.
Twelve.
She was twelve.
She stood in her old bedroom, in her parents' house.
Outside, someone was frying eggs.
What the hell happened?