Chapter 1: The Day It All Restarts

When I add Natalie Brewer on Facebook—just to send out class updates—she fires back instantly: “Sorry, not interested.” Like I’m hitting on her or something. The next day, I help her carry a suitcase and she narrows her eyes at me: “No need to put a camera on my suitcase just to spy on me.”

She struts past in a tight skirt, flashing a fake smile, and whispers, “Now that you’ve finally gotten what you wanted, you must be thrilled, you creep.” I’m too stunned to even reply, so I just walk away. But then, she goes live on Instagram, pouting for her followers: “If you didn’t like me, why did you lead me on? Betrayers of true love deserve the worst!”

One night, some psycho who bought into her stories found me on campus. I never saw the acid coming. I was in so much pain I couldn't move, didn't even have the strength to push her away. All I could do was stare up at the sky, burning, wondering how my life unraveled over someone else’s lies.

As everything went dark, I swore I’d haunt her forever. But then—a jolt, a rush of cold air, the distant sound of sneakers on linoleum. I was back in my dorm room, alive.

“Caleb, the class president’s out at debate. You mind handling class stuff for a few days? And remind everyone—quick meeting after study hall tonight.”

It’s only been a month since I started at Maple Heights University, and we’re barely over the chaos of orientation. The dorm hallways smell like burnt popcorn and cheap detergent. Someone’s blasting indie rock down the corridor, and the whiteboard on our door is already covered in inside jokes. It’s starting to feel like home, even if I still get lost finding the laundry room.

As the academic committee member, it makes sense the advisor trusts me with this stuff. Everyone’s in the class GroupMe, so I just need to @ everyone to get the word out.

But my roommate, sprawled on his bunk tossing a foam football, glances over. “Dude, did Natalie Brewer ever join the GroupMe? Want me to text her or something?”

“Nah, let her be. Not my circus.”

Having lived through all this once before, I realize I’ve been handed a second chance. In my past life, everything started when I added Natalie. She immediately decided I was into her, and from then on, every normal thing I did became proof of my supposed obsession.

Even when I did everything I could to avoid her, she always found a way to make a scene, twisting my actions into something they weren’t. If my upbringing hadn’t stopped me from cussing her out, I probably would’ve lost it in front of everyone.

Back then, I’d grit my teeth and let her nonsense roll off me, but my resentment nearly exploded out of me. My fists clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. Even dead, I couldn’t escape her.

Worst of all, she spun stories online and built a whole “deeply affectionate” persona, making herself the campus darling. And when some obsessed troll attacked me, she sobbed over my body for her audience.

I died before the ambulance arrived. As I lay there, staring at her fake, weeping face, I watched her become a campus influencer—her followers showering her with money and praise while I became the cold-hearted villain who supposedly deserved it.

I used to think a clear conscience was enough. But with someone like her? It wasn’t. Now, with this second chance, I swear I won’t let her step over my corpse to become a “success” again.

I lower my gaze, hiding the hatred in my eyes, and thumb out the message, my phone screen smudged with nervous fingerprints: “Everyone, please remind your roommates in case they missed the message.”

I toss my phone on my bed, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window—sunlight highlighting the tired lines under my eyes. No more getting dragged into her drama, I promise myself.

As for Natalie not joining the group—if even the class president doesn’t care, why should I stick my neck out?

That night, after study hall, the attendance committee takes roll. Natalie’s absent. The campus at night feels quieter, the air tinged with the scent of pizza drifting from the student union. As the committee wraps up, I make a mental note: keep my distance from Natalie Brewer at all costs.