The alarm clock broke the silence like it always did.
7:00 AM.
That artificial buzz, jagged and impatient, shattered the kind of dream James could never fully remember. He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling. The air felt heavier than usual, though he wasn't sure why. There was always something about mornings—about the moment between dreaming and waking—that made him feel like the world was holding its breath.
The ceiling above his bed was cracked in the shape of an upside-down "Y," and he'd spent far too many mornings staring at it, imagining it splitting open, letting in a sky that wasn't gray.
Today, the crack looked like it had shifted slightly. Or maybe he was just seeing it differently. He blinked twice and sat up. The cold air touched his neck where the blanket had fallen off during the night. His hoodie was balled up on the edge of the bed. He reached for it without thinking, sliding into it like armor.
His eyes drifted to the small desk in the corner of the room. The notebook was there—spiral-bound, faded green cover half torn off. The title on the front had once read BIOLOGY, but now only the "B" and part of the "Y" remained. It hadn't moved. Still exactly where he left it.
He stared at it for a second too long.
A soft knock came at his door. One, like always.
Then his mom's voice: "James? You up?"
His throat was dry. "Yeah."
The floorboards groaned under his feet as he stood up. They always groaned in the same spots, like the house itself remembered his steps better than he did. The hallway was quiet. Only the distant hum of the heater filled the silence. The hallway mirror caught his reflection for a split second: pale face, dark under his eyes, hair pushed down on one side like he'd slept in the same spot all night without moving.
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and that stale smell of cold coffee. His mom was at the table, scrolling through her phone. The TV in the living room played some morning news show—bright smiles, fake laughter, disaster just beneath the surface.
On the table: two slices of toast. One overdone, one barely done. A habit she never fixed. A mug of coffee next to it, the chipped one with the cat in glasses and the caption that read: "Pawsitive Vibes Only."
James sat down.
He chewed in silence. Toast turned to grainy mush in his mouth. His mom looked up, gave a smile that didn't reach her eyes, and went back to reading something on her phone. Probably headlines. Maybe memes. She didn't ask how he slept. She hadn't in weeks.
Outside, the bus hissed as it pulled up to the curb.
James felt his chest tighten the way it always did before school. Not full panic—but something close. Like being underwater, just deep enough that your lungs start whispering: You can't stay here.
He slung his backpack over one shoulder and gave his mom a half-wave.
"Have a good one," she said, eyes still on her screen.
The bus smelled like vinyl and morning breath. James moved down the aisle without looking at anyone. The same kids sat in the same seats. He didn't need to see their faces to know who they were. He just knew.
Reggie, across the aisle, dropped his pencil. It rolled across the floor like it always did. He muttered "Oops" like he always did. Reached down to get it.
James felt a prickle in his neck.
He sat near the back, left side, where the window had a tiny crack in the glass that spidered out in a frozen explosion. The same crack had been there for over a year. Maybe longer.
The bus started to move.
He leaned his head against the window. Cold seeped through his hoodie and into his skull. Trees blurred past, then houses. Then the same dog barking at the same kid riding a bike. Same timing. Same moment.
His stomach turned.
Déjà vu?
But this felt like more than that.
James had experienced déjà vu before. Everyone had. That flicker of familiarity that your brain waves off in seconds. But this wasn't flickering.
This was steady. Solid. Deep.
His eyes shifted as the bus turned onto Cedar. And there—on the sidewalk—he saw it.
A bird, lying still. One wing stretched out like it had tried to fly just before it hit the ground. Gray feathers darkened by dirt, a glint of something red beneath.
He stared at it until the bus moved past.
Had he seen that bird yesterday?
Maybe. Probably not.
Probably just his mind messing with him.
Probably.
He clenched his fists.
The counselor had warned him about obsessive thinking. That anxiety could trick the brain into looping thoughts. That it wasn't about the world repeating—it was about the mind refusing to let go.
Still, he couldn't shake it.
There was something too precise about the way everything felt. Like the world was acting out a script it didn't know had already been performed.
When the bus finally pulled into the school lot, the cold air outside felt like a slap across the face.
James got off and moved with the crowd, hoodie up, eyes down. The chatter of voices surrounded him but never touched him. As he crossed the courtyard, someone bumped into his shoulder, hard. He looked up, but they were already gone.
It didn't matter. It would happen again tomorrow.
He passed the same poster on the wall—"JOIN DRAMA CLUB – Auditions Friday!" Same kid handing out flyers for the Robotics team. Same couple fighting by the vending machines.
Inside his chest, something tightened again.
James blinked, tried to ground himself. Deep breath. Look for five things. Name them.
The counselor had taught him that.
One: Locker 108. Dented door.
Two: Blue backpack dragging on the floor.
Three: That weird water stain on the ceiling tile.
Four: His own shoes. Dirty laces.
Five: A girl with long black hair standing at the end of the hall, looking right at him.
Wait.
She wasn't supposed to be part of the list.
James paused.
She tilted her head—just a little. Her lips moved. She mouthed something.
It looked like:
"You're not crazy."
Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd.
James stood frozen in place.
That didn't happen yesterday. Right?
His heart pounded.
Because if everything else had been the same…
Then that?
That was different.