The absurdity of the situation tugs at him. Is this some kind of ic joke? A punishment for all his mistakes? His mind fshes to Julie, the tensioween them, and the wedding he’d witnessed just ho—or will it years?—after. Was this fate giving him a sed ce to rewrite his story? To mend bridges and fix whatever had gone wrong?

  Or was it simply a cruel twist of the universe, trapping him in a time he’d already left behind?

  His eyes drift to the window, where the sunlight filters through the curtains, casting soft patterns on the floor. Outside, he hears the faint hum of a wnmower and the distant ughter of kids pying, sounds so ordinary they’re almost surreal. It’s a world untouched by the plications of adulthood, yet the weight of his predit feels heavier than ever.

  Jiko picks up his phone—a relipared to what he’s used to—and unlocks it. The interface is ky, the s tiny, and the apps primitive pared to the sleek designs he’s aced to. He opens the dar app and stares at the date: six years ago. His stomach s as the reality solidifies further.

  His fingers hover over the phone’s keyboard. Should he call someone? Rizvan? His grandparents? Would they even believe him if he told them what was happening? Could he expin it to himself?

  A hought creeps into his mind, unbidden but insistent: If this is a sed ce, what am I supposed to do with it?

  The question hangs in the air, heavy with possibility and dread. The refle in the mirror catches his eye again, and this time, he stares back at it with determination flickering in the ers of his gaze.

  “Alright,” he murmurs to himself. “If this is some twisted redo… I guess I’d better figure out how to make it t.”

  The sound of Tito yelling from the kit jars him out of his thoughts. “Jiko! Hurry up! Yonna make us te!”

  Jiko sighs, running a hand through his unruly hair. He’s not ready for whatever this day—or this timeline—has in store, but he doesn’t have a choice. Pushing himself off the bed, he grabs his backpack, pausing to take o look at the room that feels both fn and familiar.

  As he steps out into the hallway, ohing is clear: nothing about this sed ce is going to be easy.

  Jiko ehe kit cautiously for the sed time of the m, his steps slow and deliberate as if he’s walking into a dream that could shatter at any moment. The familiar smell of pancakes wafts through the air, warm and inviting, but it does little to calm his rag thoughts.

  At the stove, his mother, Fahima, hums a lively tune—a melody Jiko remembers faintly but hasn’t heard in years. Her dark hair is tied ba a loose ponytail, free of the silver strands he’s growo seeing. She looks radiant, her movements light and graceful as she flips pancakes with practiced ease. She ughs at something, her joy filling the room and spilling into Jiko’s chest with a bittersweet ache.

  At the table, his father, Sam, sits with a steaming cup of coffee in hand, his face partially hidden behind a neer. Jiko stares, uo look away. It’s not just that his father looks younger—his posture is rexed, his expression serene, untroubled by the worries that had e to weigh him down in ter years. The rustle of the neer feels like a relic of a bygone era, and Jiko’s stomach flips at the sight.

  "M, sleepyhead! You must have had a crazy dream, maybe you time-traveled to the future or something, haha!" a voice called out, pulling Jiko out of his thoughts.

  He turned and saw Tito walking into the kit, grinning mischievously. Jiko’s breath caught in his throat. This wasn't the smooth, fident guy he'd seen at the wedding. This was young Tito—thin and nky, with slightly too-long hair and a clumsy kind of energy. He moved awkwardly, like a boy who hadn't quite grown into himself yet.

  Before Jiko could even think, Tito pyfully spped him on the back, almost knog him over. “Whoa, dude, you look like you had a nightmare about me!” Tito ughed, grabbing a pte and piling it high with pancakes.

  Jiko forced a weak smile, his mind rag. “Uh… m,” he mao say, his voice shaky.

  The kit felt like a se from a cheesy TV shht, cheerful, and ridiculously normal. His mom was chatting with Tito about some sce project he was having trouble with, and his dad was chug at a ic strip in the neer. The sound of forks on ptes and the low hum of the kit appliances made a familiar, almost f background noise.

  Almost.

  Tito narrows his eyes at Jiko, a smirk tugging at the er of his mouth. “You didn’t finish your homework st night, did you?” he teases, his voice dripping with mock accusation. “You better hope Mr. Ramiz doesn’t call on you today. You know how he loves pig on sckers.”

  Jiko blinks, the words hitting him like a bucket of cold water. Homework? Mr. Ramiz? His mind spins as he pieces it together, the realization crashing over him like a tidal wave.

  He o go back to school again.

  “Uh… yeah, I’ll… I’ll figure it out,” Jiko stammers, desperately trying to sound normal.

  Tito snorts, clearly enjoying Jiko’s disfort. “You’re hopeless, man,” he says, shoving a forkful of pao his mouth.

  Jiko’s hands ch at his sides, his heart pounding. The surrealism of the moment is overwhelming, but he knows he has to py along. He g the dar on the wall, his eyes sing the date. It’s six years earlier, just as his puter had firmed.

  As his family tiheir carefree banter, Jiko’s mind races. He’s ba his awkward school days, trapped in a timelihought he’d left behind. The thought of navigating the pitfalls of high school again makes his stomach , but beh the paniother thought lingers—a flicker of possibility.

  If he’s truly been thrown ba time, maybe this is his ce to ge things. To fix mistakes, meionships, ae the parts of his life he’s always regretted.

  But how? And at what cost?

  “Jiko, yone if you do hurry,” his mother says, breaking his train of thought.