7:00 AM.
The blaring of the alarm clock sliced through the silence like a knife. A jolt of panic surged through James' body, sending him into a full-on gasp. His body shot upright in bed, heart thundering in his chest as though it had just realized it had been holding its breath for too long.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
The sound was relentless, deafening, as if it was mocking him. No, not mocking—taunting.
He slammed his palm against the snooze button, desperate for the silence that followed, but it wasn't enough. The quiet felt too quiet, like the calm before a storm, and for a moment, his chest tightened with something darker than just simple anxiety. He didn't know if he wanted the storm to hit or if he was already living in the eye of it.
His eyes focused on the ceiling. The same crack in the plaster formed a perfect crooked "Y," but today it seemed sharper. Like it had been cut with a razor.
He lay there, paralyzed by the sensation that something—everything—was wrong.
The blankets felt too heavy. Too familiar. He could feel the same dent where his legs had curled up, the same part where his foot had kicked the corner. The same cold air coming from the slightly ajar window. The exact same scene he'd woken up to yesterday.
And the day before that.
No. No, this was different. This couldn't be happening. He grabbed the side of his head, willing the thoughts to stop, but they wouldn't. They never did.
With trembling hands, he reached for his phone, the one thing that could offer him a shred of certainty. He unlocked it and stared at the time.
7:01 AM.
It was the exact same as yesterday.
He threw the phone down in frustration. His mind was racing, and yet his body felt heavy, sluggish, unwilling to respond. It was as if the air had thickened around him, a fog that clouded his thoughts and muddled his vision.
The crack in the ceiling. The cold air. The dampness on his skin. His pulse was rising, but he couldn't tell if it was from panic or some deeper, darker realization.
He stood up slowly. The floorboards creaked, exactly where they always creaked. He stepped back, startled by the sound. His feet felt too heavy against the wood, like they were dragging him down, sinking him deeper into this suffocating repetition.
When he looked down at the hoodie draped over the edge of his bed, his stomach twisted. It was folded exactly the same as it had been yesterday. Same fold. Same angle. Same fraying at the sleeve.
James' breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't just a bad dream. This wasn't a random morning. This was... something else.
He stood, feeling like a puppet on a string, his movements too controlled, too automatic. There was no spontaneity in his limbs. No freedom. No control.
His eyes flicked toward the mirror in the hallway as he walked past it. The mirror was old, the silver in the corners chipped, but the reflection staring back at him was... the same. Same pale face. Same tired eyes. Same mess of hair. Same everything.
But it wasn't right.
James stepped closer, his hand hovering near the glass as if he were afraid to touch it. He stared into his own eyes, searching for something. Anything. Something to prove to him that he wasn't stuck in some twisted version of reality. That he wasn't caught in a dream. That he wasn't losing his mind.
But the eyes looking back at him were his own.
The reflection blinked. Just like he did.
There it was again. That feeling of wrongness.
A knock.
"James? You up?"
The voice came from behind him—his mother's voice—but it was as if the words were being forced into his head, echoing in the back of his skull. The knock came again.
"James?" she said. The same knock. The same voice.
"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice cracking.
The kitchen smelled the same—faintly of burnt toast and stale coffee. His mother was sitting at the table, as usual, scrolling through her phone. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, just like yesterday. The mug in her hand said the same thing: "Pawsitive Vibes Only."
It was all too... perfect. Too predictable.
He sat at the table, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the toast. It was the same. One side too dark, the other barely toasted. The coffee was lukewarm, the exact same as it had been the day before.
"Mom, do you ever feel like you've already lived the day before?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She looked up, but there was no recognition in her eyes. Just that same tired smile. "What do you mean?"
"This day," he pressed. "Do you ever feel like... you've done this already?"
His mother furrowed her brow, looking confused. "James, you're tired. You need to eat. It's just another day."
He clenched his fists, but no words came. It was like he was watching the same movie on repeat. The same script. The same lines.
But why was she so... unaware? Why didn't she seem to notice? Did she not see the world shifting, bending around him?
The pressure in his chest grew. His thoughts spiraled, his mind running in circles, chasing its own tail. He wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come. All he could hear was the thudding of his heart, pounding louder, faster, as if it, too, was stuck in a loop.
James stepped outside into the cold morning air, feeling the sharp bite of the wind against his skin. The world outside was the same as well. The same houses. The same cars. The same neighbors going about their mundane routines.
He stepped onto the bus, dreading the ride. The same squeaky door. The same smell of old leather and artificial air freshener. His feet dragged, slow and heavy, as if he were wading through wet cement.
He sat in his usual seat, eyes darting to the front of the bus. Reggie, the kid with the oversized backpack, sat a few rows ahead. He dropped his pencil, just like yesterday.
James snatched it before it could hit the floor, his fingers trembling as he placed it back in Reggie's hand. Reggie looked up, startled.
"Dude, chill," Reggie said, looking at him with wide eyes. "You're acting weird."
James didn't respond. He just stared at him, his mind still racing, still trying to make sense of the world that seemed to mock him at every turn.
Everything was the same.
The bus rumbled forward, and James stared out the window, willing himself to look at something different. But the same brown dog was still barking at the same fence. The same tree swayed in the wind. And the same dead bird lay at the edge of the sidewalk, its wing twisted in a grotesque angle.
It was like the world was stuck in some kind of sick, twisted loop, and he was the only one who noticed. The only one who felt the cracks in the illusion.
By the time he reached school, James felt like he was walking in someone else's shoes. Each step was like wading through fog, his body disconnected from his mind.
He passed the same students in the hallway. The same couple stood by the vending machine, arguing. The same girl in a hoodie passed him, barely glancing at him before moving on.
And then, just like before, he saw her. The girl. The one who had stared at him earlier, the one who had seemed to know.
She stood at the far end of the hallway, leaning against a locker, looking at him like she was waiting. Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders like a dark curtain, and her pale lips twisted into the faintest of smiles.
This time, he didn't hesitate. He walked straight toward her, his heart pounding in his chest. His breath hitched as he stopped just a few feet away from her.
"You remember me?" he asked, his voice cracking with the weight of everything he was feeling.
She nodded slowly. "Yes. I remember."
"I'm not crazy, am I?" His voice trembled as he searched her eyes. "I'm not the only one who's stuck in this... this loop, right?"
She looked at him, her eyes cold and deep, like they could see straight through him. "You're not crazy," she said softly. "But this isn't a loop. It's something else."
James felt his blood run cold. "What do you mean? What's happening to me?"
But she didn't answer. Instead, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd like she had never been there at all.
That night, James lay awake in his bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling. The same crack. The same pattern. The same goddamn pattern that was starting to break him.
He couldn't take it anymore. He needed something to change. He needed something—anything—to prove that this wasn't his life forever.
With trembling hands, he pulled out a sharpie from his desk drawer. He turned his arm over, staring at the pale skin of his forearm. Without thinking, he wrote:
"This is real."
If it stayed there tomorrow, it meant something. It meant this wasn't some nightmare. This wasn't a hallucination. This wasn't his mind slipping away.
But if it wasn't there…
If it was gone…
He didn't know what would happen.
He closed his eyes, clenching his fists, and whispered to the darkness:
"Please don't let tomorrow be the same."