Sarah

(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 Sarah slumped to her knees. You couldn't move when she closed her 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, unbearable girl.

The alcohol at the high school reunion blurred reality, and you blacked out. You woke up in 2014. A younger you appeared in the mirror. Barely breathing, you rushed to Sarah's house. She stepped out onto the porch, squinting in the sun. Your fingers dug into her shoulders, convulsively, painfully. You felt the warmth of her skin, heard her heartbeat. Tears choked you as you hoarsely exhaled:

• Alive... You're alive...

She frowned in confusion, squeezing your wrist. Her 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."

She 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 her near that garage. Her life is now your only religion.