Chapter 1
I wake up, open a single eyelid to check that I am where I think I am. In my bed. In my studio. Sun beaming through the windows. It stings. Too bright.
I should be grateful that I’m still breathing, but all I feel is this overwhelming, otherworldly grumpiness.
“Nnnnnnnnope,” I mumble, pulling the sheets over my aching head. “No thanks. Hard pass.”
I’m caught in an inexplicable time loop of horrors. Why get out of bed? Confront this day again? I shut my eyes tight, shimmy deeper under the covers. But there behind my eyelids—Ravi dead in front of me.
It was too much, watching him die like that. Too much.
Archimedes grunts. He’ll start whining for breakfast soon.
“Fine.” I get up and feed Archie, take some Advil, order DoorDash McDonald’s, make coffee and spike it with whiskey.
I abandon the deck I need to finish for work even though I’ve already done it multiple times, instead opting to stare at the wall while trying not to think about zombies and death and my bitter ex and our wedding that never happened and the wedding that’s happening later that I will most certainly die horrifically at, likely after having to suffer through the ceremony for a fourth time.
My food arrives. Sausage and egg McMuffin.
Steak and cheese on a biscuit. Bacon, egg, and cheese McGriddle.
Hash browns. Vanilla milkshake. Apple pies.
I take it all into bed with me. If the grease stains my sheets, so what?
Either I wake up today again with clean sheets or I wake up tomorrow with greasy sheets having broken the loop by not going to the wedding.
Because I don’t think I’m going.
No. I’m not.
I’m not going to the wedding.
This decision will eviscerate my friendships, cause irreparable damage.
Potential permanent alienation. They’ll be so angry at me.
I could claim to be sick—food poisoning, fever, the flu, etc.
—but there’s no way they’ll believe me, considering the circumstances.
They’ll know I’m lying; assume I’m avoiding a reunion with Ravi or surrendering to depression.
Assume selfishness. I couldn’t prove them wrong, can’t explain how I think there’s a good chance my absence might save their lives.
That there’s something cosmically amiss, and whatever it is, it’s seemingly tied to me, since I’m the only one aware that it’s even happening. They won’t understand. They can’t.
I gulp my whiskey-laced coffee and Google “what to do if you’re stuck in a time loop.”
The AI overview states that according to fictional scenarios, I need to “identify the trigger causing the loop and actively change my behavior within that day to break free.” It suggests I do something drastically different.
Staying home seems drastically different. I nibble my McBreakfast.
Google goes on to say that time loops aren’t real and suggests that I should just switch up my routine to put an end to any feelings of repetitiveness or sense of being trapped.
Then it goes into a bulleted list of things to consider in a fictional time loop, like analyzing my surroundings, observing behaviors, seeking knowledge, and being thoughtful about potential effects or outcomes.
Admittedly, the latter isn’t exactly my strong suit.
The list wraps up by again pointing out that time loops are a fictional concept and gently advises to seek help if needed.
“I am seeking help, Google,” I shout at my laptop screen. “You’re the help!”
I turn to Reddit, which is dire. The top post starts off with “don’t panic.”
“Yeah, of course. Great advice.”
I scroll down a random thread. People love to speculate about all the crazy shit they would do if they lived in a world without consequence.
Must be nice to a) not have a modicum of shame or anxiety, and b) remain blissfully oblivious that every action within the loop does have consequences, as I’ve come to learn.
The Ravi out there existing right now doesn’t know that we confronted each other, started hashing things out, but I do.
And Cass, she’s probably at her kitchen counter quietly resenting me for being needy, wishing I’d just figure my shit out and give her space, not knowing that I know exactly how she feels and that my own resentments are percolating as a result.
And Danny. All the promise of our first meeting has been forever tarnished by the knowledge that he’s an epic fuckboy.
He gave me a taste of what it might feel like to move on, to get the attention I’m starving for post-breakup, and then promptly proved to be a disappointment.
Maybe in some universe he would take me to Tokyo for sushi, fly me halfway around the world, and we’d wander the streets of the city hand in hand, mess up a hotel bed, live in a fantasy.
But in that universe, and I’m guessing every universe, he’d leave before fantasy gave way to reality.
I’m not sure I can blame him. Reality sucks.
I knock back the rest of my whiskey coffee and chase it with a hash brown shoved all the way into my mouth. Good for me. I’m drunk before noon, and I plan to keep drinking until I’m on another planet.
I draft an unhinged text to Cassie telling her I have a stomach virus and won’t make it to the wedding.
That it’s not about Ravi or because I’m too sad and I really wanted to be there and I’m sorry.
I read and reread it. I edit. Delete. Rewrite.
I hit send before I lose my nerve, then immediately turn off my phone.
What if I’m wrong about the loop being connected to me, to my presence at the wedding? What if I don’t go, and we all die anyway? Or what if they all die, and I survive? What if the loop only resets if I’m there?
The apartment is quiet, save for Archimedes softly purring beside me in hopes he’ll get some of my McDonald’s.
“Cats shouldn’t have McDonald’s,” I tell him, giving him a tiny bit of bacon. “This is bad. All of this is bad. Everything is bad.”
He disagrees. A taste of bacon, and he’s a different animal. Loving and snuggly.
“No more,” I tell him, gathering any uneaten food and putting it back in the bag for later. I’m looking forward to cold McDonald’s, which just goes to show how close I am to hitting rock bottom.
The day stretches out in front of me, empty and chillingly uncertain. The days I’ve put behind me replay in my head. Every kiss, every kill. Every death. Theirs. Mine. Ours.
I am so fucking tired. Dangerously tired. I feel hollow. I feel completely untethered. Completely alone.
I pull Archie close and set up my laptop at the foot of the bed.
“What should we watch?” I ask him.
I can’t stomach a drama or romance or comedy. Definitely not a rom-com, though I briefly consider Groundhog Day for recon, out of sheer curiosity, but Bill Murray just seems like a real asshole and, personally, I can’t get past it.
I hover my cursor over Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
It’s not what I should be watching, because it would sure be a coincidence if my recent foray into horror media had nothing to do with the fact that I’m stuck in a specifically horror-themed time loop.
But it’s the only thing. It’s all I want.
To watch a bunch of unsuspecting strangers meet some cruel fate and sit here day-wasted mumbling condolences.
Maybe I’m retraumatizing myself. Or desensitizing.
Or maybe it’s just nice to watch it happen to someone other than me and the people I love.
To know that it’s fiction. That whatever the horror is, it isn’t real.
The credits will roll and everything will be fine. It will be fine. It will be fine.
I know in my weary bones it’s the one thing in the world right now that will make me feel better, make me feel less alone. So I hit play.
—
I jolt awake on a wet pillow. It’s soaked in whiskey-scented drool. My laptop is at my feet, the screen black.
It’s dark outside.
I must have fallen asleep. I must have slept through the whole day.
I reach for my phone to check the time, but it’s off and I’m too overcome with dread to turn it on. I can’t imagine the venomous messages I must have from Cass. From Evan. Though, Evan probably isn’t mad. He’ll just have lost respect for me that I won’t be able to get back, which might be worse.
The possibility that I could be stuck in this timeline doesn’t exactly make me feel great. I get my cigarettes out of my bag and light one. It’s an earned luxury—smoking in bed. I lean against my damp pillow. Archimedes howls in protest of my contaminated exhale, scurrying into the closet.
“I’m a bad mother. I know.”
I feel too guilty to keep dirtying the air. I put the cigarette out in my mug from earlier, which has the tiniest sip of whiskey coffee left.
“I’m sorry, Archie.” I drag my ass out of bed to the bathroom so I can shower off the smell of cigarettes and liquor and fast-food grease.
There are voices outside. My street isn’t sleepy, but it’s never quite this loud. The words are muffled, but the tone is distinct. It’s a tone I know deep in my caveman DNA. Something’s wrong. I move to the windows and peer down.
There are way too many people out on the sidewalk. Cars double-parked. General commotion. Everyone looks up.
For one terrible second, I think it’s at me. Then I realize they’re looking past me. Up at the sky. I press my face to the windowpane and crane my neck to get a better view.
The sky is clotted with thick gray clouds. They’re strangely fluffy. They strangle the moonlight, any starlight. It’s dark. Everyone seems very concerned about it, which makes me concerned about it.
I can hear Archie quietly complaining from the closet. He hisses, which he never does.
“What is it? What are they looking at? A plane? Helicopter? Wouldn’t I hear it? Do you hear it?” I ask Archie. “Why is an aircraft so fascinating?”
Different fears manifest in different ways. This fear is cold. It pricks the soles of my feet and scales up my body, my skin erupting in goose bumps. “I don’t like this.”
I knew there was a possibility that the horrors would persist even if I skipped the wedding, but I think I dissociated to the point of not actually accepting that possibility.
My skull feels like it’s shrinking and I’m nauseous. The aftermath of drinking before noon.
I shuffle into the kitchen for water, grab a mug I’m pretty sure is clean, and fill it from the tap. The clock on the microwave says it’s 3:07 p.m.
That can’t be right. “Did the power go out? Is that why people are outside?”
I flip on the light. If it did go out, it’s back on. So, what’s everyone outside for?
I yawn and double back to my laptop, press the space bar. It’s dead.
I plug it in and wait, chewing on my nails.
I think of Steph. I hope she’s on the dance floor right now, twirling in her jumpsuit to Whitney Houston.
I hope Jace is picking her up and tossing her over his shoulder, parading her around like he did back in college.
I hope Wyatt is grooving, Evan rolling his eyes.
I hope Luke is stoned out of his mind and Cass is rapturously drunk, that they’re getting the fun night away they deserve.
I’m sure Ravi has noticed that I’m not there. I wonder if he’s relieved. Or worried. I wonder if he cares at all.
His voice is in my head, louder than the throb of my headache. Stop. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! You’re right. You were right. About us. About everything. Come back.
There are no other timelines. No alternate universes. There’s only this.
Give me time. I need time. Funny because I have all the time in the world, and no time at all. I have forever, and only one day. Hours cut short by some looming horror.
My laptop wakes up, the screen brightening.
They’re not dancing at the wedding because the wedding hasn’t even started yet.
It’s 3:11 p.m. The clock on the microwave wasn’t wrong. It’s the middle of the afternoon.
Why is it this dark in the middle of the afternoon?