Chapter 1: Ten Years Gone Overnight

The day after I said yes when my crush asked me out, I woke up ten years in the future.

It was the kind of morning that didn’t make sense—the sunlight felt all wrong—too bright, too sharp. Like it belonged in someone else’s life, not mine. My head throbbed, and the air smelled faintly of fresh laundry and lemon cleaner, not the old dorm room mustiness I remembered. What the hell? For a moment, I wondered if I was dreaming. Then I blinked again—and saw him.

I opened my eyes and there he was—a little boy with big, brown eyes staring at me and whispering, "Mom."

His voice was so soft it barely carried, but that single word landed in my chest like a stone. He was standing there in Spider-Man pajamas, clutching a battered blue stuffed bunny. His hair stuck up at odd angles—bedhead, for sure—and his cheeks were flushed with sleep. For a second, I just stared, caught between panic and disbelief.

A little later, after I’d managed to pull myself together, I started poking around a dusty storage closet and found a wedding photo.

The frame was heavy and ornate, a little old-fashioned for my taste. I wiped away a layer of dust and stared at the photo—there I was, in a white dress, smiling at a man I didn’t recognize. My heart dropped. The groom wasn’t my crush. He wasn’t even someone I’d ever daydreamed about. The realization hit me like cold water.

I ran my finger over the glass, searching for some hint, some sign this was a joke or a mistake. But there was no denying it. My future had veered wildly off script. My stomach twisted with anxiety, fear and curiosity all mixed up inside me.

It hit me: I’d jumped ten years ahead in time.

The thought rattled around in my brain, impossible but undeniable. I pressed my palm to my forehead, trying to remember anything—how I got here, what happened in the years between. Nothing. Just a blank space, like someone had hit fast-forward on my life and left me behind.

I was lying in a strange bed, in a house I didn’t recognize. My heart thudded. Where the hell was I?

The sheets were crisp, the room smelled faintly of lavender, and everything felt too neat, too grown-up. Framed family photos lined the dresser, but none with faces I knew. A soft hum of traffic drifted in from outside, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. I felt like an intruder in my own life.

Just as I was trying to piece things together, a small figure darted in through the bedroom door.

The door creaked, and the little boy from earlier peeked in, eyes wide and cautious. His presence made the room feel suddenly smaller, the air tense with anticipation.

I ducked under the covers and squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

I squeezed my eyes shut, heart thumping, hoping he’d just leave. Instead, I heard the soft pad of his feet as he tiptoed closer. My breath caught in my throat.

Tiny footsteps padded closer, and then a soft little hand pressed against my forehead.

His palm was cool and tentative, lingering as if he was checking for a fever. The gentleness of the gesture nearly undid me. I kept my breathing slow and even, forcing myself not to react.

He started rambling, telling me about what he’d had for lunch and the games he’d played lately.

He went on in that way only kids can, describing peanut butter sandwiches and how he’d built a tower with blocks that reached "all the way to the sky." His voice was earnest, hopeful, and heartbreakingly sweet.

Just as I was trying to figure out who this kid was, his next words made my heart skip a beat.

He said, "Mom, you’ve been sick for days. Why won’t you wake up? You don’t like me, but I really miss you. Please wake up, Mom."

There was a tremor in his voice, a raw vulnerability that made my chest ache. I could hear him sniffle, as if holding back tears. That word—Mom—rang in my ears, louder than anything else he’d said.

Mom!

This kid just called me Mom!

My brain short-circuited. I felt a surge of panic, confusion, and something else—guilt? I’d never seen him before in my life, and yet here he was, calling me Mom like it was the most natural thing in the world.

My eyes flew open before I could stop myself.

I saw a cute little boy with big, anxious eyes and a pouty mouth standing by the bed, staring at me.

His bottom lip trembled, and he clutched his bunny tighter. He looked so small, so lost. For a moment, neither of us moved. I wanted to say something—anything—but my throat closed up.

Before I could say a word, the child turned and bolted from the room.

His footsteps echoed down the hallway, quick and frantic. I was left staring at the doorway, heart racing, mind spinning. The silence that followed felt heavier than any words could have.

Oh my god!

Just last night, I’d said yes to my crush. Now, with one blink, there’s a kid this big calling me Mom.

I pressed my hands to my face, trying to steady my breathing. My mind raced through every possible explanation—dream, prank, breakdown. None of them fit. I pinched my arm, hard. It hurt.

As soon as he was gone, I grabbed my phone and called my childhood friend, Harper Lane.

My hands shook as I scrolled through my contacts, searching for a familiar name. Harper had always been my emergency contact, the one person I could call in a crisis. I prayed she hadn’t changed her number.

I had no clue what I’d been through these past ten years—my phone barely had any info, and even my old friends were gone from my contacts.

The wallpaper was of some scenic mountain, not the Taylor Swift concert shot I remembered. My call log was empty except for a few unknown numbers. It felt like someone else’s phone, but my thumbprint still worked. That was something, at least.