In the solitude of unrequited love, I have danced alone, weaving dreams that were doomed from the start. Each step I took towards you was like navigating a field of hidden dangers, filled with the risk of rejection and the dread of losing our bond...
sometimes your heart needs more time to accept what your mind already knows.
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The unrelenting sun bathed her body in warmth, its rays casting a golden glow that penetrated even the supposedly cool confines of the air-conditioned room. Beads of sweat adorned her forehead and neck, a testament to the oppressive heat. Despite the artificial chill in the air, an unshakable warmth clung to her, making every breath feel like a laborious task.
In an abrupt awakening, she snapped her eyes open, the room materializing around her. The familiarity of the bed beneath her brought a strange sense of comfort. Yet, fragmented memories danced on the edges of her consciousness—she recalled passing out in her car, blood trickling from her nose.
Curiosity mingled with confusion as she raised a hand to her nose, half-expecting to feel the stickiness of blood. To her surprise, there were no traces. Her gaze lowered to her body, clad in the familiar fabric of her old night suit. The room held its secrets close, urging her to unravel the mystery.
Cautiously, she rose from the bed and navigated the silent expanse of the house. The solitude left her with unanswered questions. Who had come to her rescue, and why had they changed her clothes? The air seemed to guard its secrets as she ventured into each unoccupied room.
Returning to her starting point, she sought refuge in her room, the lingering enigma compelling her to search for answers. Her fingers traced the edges of familiarity on a side table, finding a phone. Yet, as she lifted it, a realization unfolded—it wasn't her phone. Instead, an older model rested in her grasp. With a press of the side button, the device hummed to life, unveiling a lock screen wallpaper that transported her to the corridors of high school nostalgia. The room echoed with unspoken questions, leaving her to navigate the conundrum of her inexplicable surroundings, the familiarity of the bed only adding to the enigmatic puzzle.
A moment of disbelief lingered as she held her phone—a perfect replica of her old device, same model, color, and wallpaper. Yet, her old phone should be relegated to the store room, probably damaged and inactive. How could it now turn on, and why did it rest in her bedroom? The mystery deepened as she grappled with the incongruities—her unexpected return home and the sudden length of her hair.
Yearning for answers, she approached her vanity, confronting her reflection in the mirror. Despite her age of 21, the reflection mirrored her high school self—youthful, with long, black hair. A stark contradiction to the chestnut brown dye and shorter cut she distinctly remembered from her university days.
Questions swirled in her mind. Was this an elaborate prank, an exact replica of her mobile created to confuse her? Had she been unconscious for months, allowing the dye to fade and her hair to grow back? Seeking validation, she checked the date on the phone, revealing a timestamp from three years ago—coinciding with the completion of her exams.
Driven by the need for confirmation, she ventured into the living room, where the TV became a temporal window. Turning on the news channel, it broadcasted events from the same period, a disconcerting confirmation of the inexplicable time shift.
