Chapter 2

A jolt, like falling from a great height.

My eyes snapped open.

Loud music, the thumping bass vibrating through my chest.

The smell of stale beer and cheap perfume.

I knew this place.

A frat party, years ago. College.

My head swam, a disorienting wave of nausea and confusion.

Across the crowded room, I saw him.

Mark.

Younger, yes, but unmistakably Mark.

He was cornered by a group of Tiffany's friends, wealthy, arrogant jocks.

They were laughing, jeering.

"Look at this nobody," one of them sneered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Still chasing Tiffany. Get a clue, loser."

Mark's face was flushed, his fists clenched.

In my past life, my first life, I would have rushed to his side, defended him, soothed his bruised ego.

I remembered the countless times I'd done just that, shielding him from criticism, from his own insecurities.

Chloe, my best friend, my roommate, was beside me.

She looked concerned. "Sarah? You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She started to move towards Mark, expecting me to follow.

This time, I didn't.

I turned, and walked away.

Chloe stared, stunned. "Sarah? Where are you going?"

"Away from him," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

The memory of Tiffany's cold confession, the feel of the SUV hitting me, it was all too vivid, too real.

I wouldn't be the farmer nursing the frozen snake again. Not this time.

I needed air, needed to think.

The noise of the party faded as I pushed through the throng and out into the cool night.

Rebirth? Was this real?

It had to be. The details were too precise, the emotions too raw.

Mark found me near the campus fountain, his expression a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

"Sarah! What the hell? Why'd you just leave me there?"

He looked different. Not just younger. There was an unfamiliar confidence, an arrogance that hadn't been so pronounced back then.

Or had I just been blind to it?

"I saw you," he said, "You were supposed to back me up."

I looked at him, really looked at him. The charismatic charm was there, but now I saw the narcissism beneath it, the manipulative core.

"I have my scholarship winnings," he said, his tone shifting, becoming demanding. "I need you to give them to me."

I blinked. "What for?"

"Tiffany. She wants this new designer bag. It's expensive. You know how much I want to impress her."

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, like I still owed him my devotion, my resources.

As if my scholarship, the one I'd worked so hard for, was his to command.

The audacity. It was breathtaking.

He must be reborn too, or at least carry the unshakeable belief in his future success from the first timeline. That arrogance was too out of place for the Mark I knew at this specific point in our past.

"My scholarship money?" I asked, keeping my voice even.

"Yeah, come on, Sarah. Don't be difficult."

A slow smile spread across my face.

"Actually, Mark," I said, enjoying the words, "I donated the entire sum to the local women's shelter this afternoon."

His jaw dropped. "You what?"

"In honor of resilient women everywhere," I added, a little too sweetly.

"Are you insane?" he sputtered, his face turning red. "That money was for Tiffany! For us! For my future!"

"Your future, Mark? Or the future you stole from me?" The words slipped out, sharper than I intended.

He recoiled slightly, a flicker of something – confusion? Recognition? – in his eyes.

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," I said, turning to leave. "Enjoy the party."

Later that night, my phone buzzed. Mark.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again. And again.

Chloe looked over. "Trouble in paradise already?"

"No paradise," I said. "Just trouble."

He left a voicemail, his voice tight with fury and humiliation.

Apparently, his attempt at a grand gesture for Tiffany, whatever it was without my money, had backfired spectacularly.

Tiffany's clique had pranked him, leaving him embarrassed and fuming.

He was calling from the campus health clinic, probably for some minor injury sustained during his humiliation.

He expected me to rush over, to comfort him, to fix it.

Like I always did.

I listened to the voicemail, a cold satisfaction spreading through me.

Then, I blocked his number.

It was a small act, but it felt like the first step on a new path.

My path.