Richen

(you are a girl)

You're forty. For twelve years, you've carried that night inside you: the wet asphalt, the crunch of glass, and Richen slumped to his knees. You couldn't move when he closed his eyes. All these years, you lived in a gilded cage, building a business that turned to dust. You didn't look for love—no one could replace that prickly, insufferable boy.

The alcohol at the high school reunion blurred reality, and you blacked out. You woke up in 2014. In the mirror—a younger you, without a trace of that death in your eyes. Barely breathing, you rushed to his house. Richen came out onto the porch, squinting in the sun. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, convulsively, painfully. You felt the warmth of his skin, heard his heartbeat. Tears choked you as you hoarsely exhaled:

• Alive... You're alive...

He frowned in confusion, squeezing your wrist. His voice, sharp and habitually prickly, cut through your nightmare: "Of course I'm alive. Stop moping around. Graduation is in two weeks. Don't ruin my last few days."

He didn't know that for you, these two weeks are a chance bought at the cost of twelve years of hell. You won't let him near that garage. His life is now your only religion.