Chapter 1 #2
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I choke out. I make the mistake of glancing at the slides again, the words “mechanics of central bank operations” hanging there like a threat, and another sob bubbles up from my lips.
I have this feeling of surreality, like a hyper-vivid dream.
It isn’t just the overwhelming sense of déjà vu; it’s like I’m being reacquainted with reality itself, with my own body.
I died. I swear I died back in that office, and yet here I sit, my heart thumping, impossibly alive, all while my old professor turns his attention back to the slide.
“All right, quiet down then. Make sure you take notes on consumer spending—you’ll be doing a group assignment . . .”
By instinct or muscle memory, I actually start copying down the slides before I stop and realize I’ve taken these notes before.
Three years ago, I took the notes in careful detail and did the group assignment and got an A-plus and it led me to—what?
To my Big Four job, to giving up sleep, to updating the same pitch deck over and over again, to choking to death on a chocolate almond with nobody around to watch me die.
Maybe I’ve gone back in time for a reason.
Maybe this is my second chance. A chance to do things differently.
“Okay, I can’t do this,” I blurt out.
The professor blinks. “I beg your pardon?” he says.
“It’s just—it’s so boring.”
Someone sitting in the row behind me lets out a muffled breath of laughter, and somehow, before I even turn around, I know who it is. I would know that sound anywhere.
Luke Blythe.
He’s there, right there. His dark, rumpled hair, his striking profile, the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Dimples, flashing. Our eyes lock and recognition flickers over his face.
He’s still laughing. There’s no mockery in it, though; he looks amused by my outburst, while everyone else looks horrified.
The last time I saw him before I died, he was, unsurprisingly, on the cover of a sports magazine.
One of the Fastest Rising Stars in Track and Field, the headline read.
Anyone would’ve thought the photo was enhanced, but honestly, I thought the photo didn’t do him justice.
Nothing compares to seeing him in real life, in motion.
I tear my eyes away from him, but I can feel his gaze on me. He’s never paid attention to me before, not once in high school. It emboldens me.
“I don’t want to take this class anymore,” I say, louder.
It’s true. It’s always been true. I never wanted to study economics—it was my parents who picked it out for me.
Literally, they sat down next to me and selected the major on my laptop while I watched, my hands frozen.
I was too scared to tell them I wanted to study English because I knew they’d disapprove, and their approval meant everything.
They assured me it was the best option, that I wouldn’t have to worry about unemployment, and they looked at me with so much expectation in their eyes that I felt it like a physical weight, a pressure that hasn’t lifted since.
They had it all mapped out for me, the fastest track to investment banking at one of the prestigious Big Four investment banking firms. “I don’t think I’d enjoy it, though,” I protested feebly, but my mom waved a dismissive hand.
“Of course you won’t. You don’t get paid to do enjoyable things. That’s the whole concept of a job.”
I listened to them. Worse, I believed them. I brainwashed myself into thinking that was the only option, that jobs weren’t meant to be enjoyed, that there wasn’t more to life. But I do have other options. Like right now. I could walk out this door right now and never come back.
I could really do it, nothing’s stopping me. And this time, it would be my choice.
Without another word, I pack my things into my bag and rise from my seat. “Excuse me,” I say. “I’m going to go.”
I glance back just once on my way out and find Luke right away. His eyes are still on me, his head cocked to the side, as if he’s truly just seen me for the first time.
The registrar’s office is tucked away behind the printers in the Economics Department, so far down the corridor that I almost miss it.
When I enter, the receptionist looks up at me for only a second, then turns back to her computer, as if hoping I might disappear on my own.
It makes me suspect the office is hard to find by design.
She scrolls and clicks twice on her mouse.
I wait for her to notice me, but she finishes typing an email, one key at a time, using only her index fingers.
Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap. Then she takes a small sip of her coffee.
Blows cold air on it. Sets it down. Picks it up again, without any hurry, and takes a longer sip.
I try not to fidget. Finally, she is forced to acknowledge my existence. “Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yes, hi.” I clear my throat. “I would like to change majors.”
She raises her brows. “Sorry, your name is—”
“Allison,” I tell her. “Allison Yang.”
She clicks the mouse again and peers over at her screen. “Allison . . . You’re taking third-year economics, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“And you would want to change it to . . .”
The answer rises easily to my lips, the answer I’ve only allowed myself to daydream about, to wonder about. I want to do so much more than just wonder this time around. “English.”
Her fingers pause over the keyboard. “English?” she repeats. “That’s quite the change. Are you sure? It’s only the beginning of the semester—you could take more time to decide . . .”
“No, I’ve already decided,” I tell her. “I’ve had plenty of time to think.
” Three whole years. Three years of being miserable, exhausted, burned out.
Three years of pushing myself right up to the edge of death.
No, longer than that, from high school through to college to my investment banking job.
All that time, and I wasted it, trying to convince myself to want things I didn’t.
“You’ll need to transfer your credits,” she warns. “And you’ll need to take courses in the summer to make up for it, or your graduation will be delayed.”
Years ago, this would have terrified me into backing out. The thought of being behind, being late, not graduating in time. I would’ve thought it the worst thing that could ever happen to me.
“That’s fine,” I say calmly. “I understand.”
She hesitates, then resumes typing, her nails clacking loudly against the keys. “All right, I’ll email you the details now. There’s a form you need to fill out if you’re switching majors . . .”
“Amazing, thank you,” I say, stunned by the simplicity of it. How possible it is. Which means it’s always been possible, I was just too scared.
As I turn to go, a familiar voice sounds behind me, low and pleasant and polite: “Hi, excuse me . . .”
I whirl around. It’s exactly who I hoped it would be.
Luke Blythe makes his way past me to the front desk.
He moves like the athlete he is, confident, graceful, unafraid to take up space.
He’s wearing a plain white shirt and there’s a bandage wrapped tight around his forearm, but I can’t tell if it’s from an injury or if it’s one of those preventative things.
His eyes flicker to me.
My heart seizes. I keep walking to the door, into the crisp air, but then I wait there. I wait for ten, fifteen minutes, and then he comes back out, and I make a split decision to step in front of him. That was my mistake, before. Waiting too long and doing absolutely nothing about it.
If this really is a second chance, I have to make it count for something.
“Hey,” I say.
For a moment he just looks at me and I wonder if he even heard me, but he stops. “Hey,” he says. “Are you, ah, feeling better?”
I blink, confused. At first, I assume he’s referring to the fact that I choked to death, except nobody should know about that, and he sounds a bit too casual.
“You looked like you were going through something back there in the economics lecture,” he elaborates.
“Yeah, I know, sorry,” I say. “I swear I don’t usually like to make a scene. It was just a . . . a very long morning.”
“No, don’t be sorry. That was the most emotion I’ve ever witnessed on display in an economics lecture.”
“I’m not sure about that. The professor gets pretty worked up about stocks.” I pause. “Did he say anything after I left the lecture like that?”
He shakes his head. “I think he was a bit too shocked to speak, to be fair.”
“Well, at least I won’t have to see him again.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just switched majors. Like, literally, just a few minutes ago, that’s why I’m here. I’m doing English now.”
His eyes widen a fraction. “Really? You just went and did it?”
“I guess so.”
He laughs. “That’s impressive,” he says.
He does sound genuinely impressed, which feels like an upheaval of everything I’ve ever believed. I thought you could only impress people by achieving difficult things, by being perfect, making no mistakes.
“I should’ve done it ages ago, honestly,” I admit.
“So why now?”
“I think I had this sudden epiphany,” I tell him.
“I don’t want to continue on this path I hate and then find myself three years down the line, stuck alone in an empty gray corporate office, making pitch decks for a manager who couldn’t care less if I died, wishing I’d done things differently earlier, when I was young and alive . . .”
“Wow,” he says.
I’ve been talking too much. I’m sure of it, yet he’s still here, listening to me ramble. “You probably don’t remember me,” I add, emboldened, “but we went to the same high school together?”
“Oh, yeah.” He isn’t smiling, but his expression is open and friendly enough that he might as well be. “No, I do remember you.”
A thrill races through my blood until I remind myself he’s the kind of person who’d say that, whether he really remembered me or not.
“You were in the year below, right?” he asks.
“Right,” I say, surprised.
“Well, it’s nice to see you again.” He starts to turn around like he’s about to go.