Chapter 1: Second Chance, Same Heartbeat

The day my crush jumped off the water tower, everything changed—I woke up back at eighteen, heart pounding like I’d just been yanked out of a nightmare. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. My mind reeled: was this really happening? The world felt too sharp, too bright, like the universe had hit rewind just for me.

It was the kind of small-town legend that lingered in the air, heavy and unforgettable, like the scent of rain on hot pavement. I could still hear the sirens, the buzz of whispered rumors at the diner, the way the whole town seemed to stop breathing for a minute. My chest tightened at the memory. But this time—this time, I was going to change everything. No way was I letting it end the same way.

Determined not to let him die again, I went after him with a wild, hungry energy—maybe not like a literal starving wolf, but I was desperate, and everyone could see it. I didn’t care. I’d chase him to the ends of the earth if I had to.

That sense of desperation clung to me all over again, raw and electric, like static under my skin. I didn’t care if people stared. I didn’t care if it made me look crazy. Maybe I was a little crazy. I was going to keep Mason Reed alive, no matter what it took—even if I had to make a complete fool of myself to do it.

He couldn’t stand me. I could feel it in the way he looked at me, the way his jaw tightened. I braced myself for the inevitable. “Walker, I really don’t have time for your drama.” He gave me a look that could freeze lava. “If you want to mess around, pick someone else, okay?”

He said it with that bored, cutting tone only the smartest kid in school could get away with. Mason always had this way of making you feel like you were wasting his time, like he had a thousand more important things to do—probably because he did. I felt a little thrill just being on his radar, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

Still, a month later, he ended up on the high school rooftop. No matter how hard I tried, the story kept looping back. I remember thinking, isn’t there supposed to be a way to stop this? The universe didn’t care. It just handed me the same test again.

The memory of that day burned like acid in my chest. I could still picture the wind whipping around him, the way his knuckles turned white gripping the edge. My hands shook remembering how I’d failed him once. Not this time.

Not this time.

“Walker Easton, if you dare hook up with someone else, I’ll end it right in front of you.”

His voice was so cold, so sharp, it could’ve cut glass. There was a dare in it, a challenge that made my heart race and my stomach drop. He always knew how to hit where it hurt most. That was Mason—always finding the weak spot and pressing until you bled.

All my friends said I’d lost it—a spoiled rich kid chasing after Mason Reed, the valedictorian. And we were both guys.

I heard the whispers echoing through the halls—Maple Heights High wasn’t exactly a place where two boys dating went unnoticed. My last name bought me a lot of leeway; being an Easton meant teachers looked the other way when I skipped class or showed up late, but not that much. Still, I didn’t care. Not when it came to him.

I glanced at the breakfast sandwich I’d left in the trash, then went to buy another and set it on his desk. Then I watched Mason toss it in the trash again. I had to admit, he had good aim—the sandwich arced perfectly into the can. I almost wanted to applaud.

I couldn’t help but notice the little things—how precise he was, even with something as simple as a sandwich. There was almost a weird kind of beauty in the way he moved, like he was always calculating the best angle, the perfect outcome. Honestly, I couldn’t look away.

“No wonder you’re a genius. Even your trash shots are beautiful.”

I tried to keep my tone light, teasing. But my heart was pounding. It was a small thing, but I wanted him to know I noticed everything about him—even the stuff he probably thought no one saw.

Mason shot me a cold look and gave me two words: “You’re sick.”

He looked at me with that blank stare—eyes flat, unreadable. But I caught the tiniest flicker of something else—a flash of surprise, maybe, or pure annoyance. Either way, I’d gotten a reaction out of him. I’d take it.

I grinned as wide as I could. “Thanks, Mason.”

I made my smile as big and obnoxious as possible, like his words bounced right off me. But inside, I was just grateful he was talking to me at all. Even if it was to call me names.

He looked at me like I was out of my mind. And maybe I was. I could almost hear his thoughts: What is wrong with this guy? Still, I didn’t back down.

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, I wondered if he’d actually call the guidance counselor on me. My stomach did a little flip, but I held my ground, refusing to flinch. Bring it on.

I leaned in, close enough to feel his breath, and whispered in his ear, “I’ve been chasing you for days. You finally spoke to me—I’m definitely not giving up.”

I let my breath tickle his ear, hoping he’d feel how serious I was. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might shake loose from my chest. If this was a game, I was all in. No take-backs.

And quietly, in my heart, I said, Thank you for letting me start over. Thank you for giving me another shot at loving you.

I closed my eyes for half a second. Let the gratitude settle in. Not everyone gets a second chance—especially not with the person who means everything.

Mason tossed me another couple of words: “I hate gay people.”

His voice was low, almost a whisper. The words hit me like a punch—sharp as ice, cold as a January wind. For a second, I just stared at him. But I knew him too well to believe it.

“Even better. Makes it more of a challenge.”

I shot him a cocky grin, trying to keep things light. If he was going to push, I was going to push back, twice as hard. I couldn’t help myself.

And that was it. He stopped talking to me.

He clammed up, shutting me out with a wall of silence. It was like trying to talk to a locked door. But I wasn’t giving up. Not now, not ever.

I went back to my seat. Already thinking about what breakfast to get him tomorrow.

I tapped my pencil against my notebook, making a mental list. Bagels, maybe? Or those chocolate croissants from the bakery downtown. I’d try every morning until something stuck. I was stubborn like that.

Because I knew—Mason didn’t really hate gay people. He just hated love that wasn’t genuine. What scared him most was getting something only to lose it again, so he shut himself off. If you never have it, you never lose it.

I’d seen that kind of fear before, in the way he flinched from kindness, the way he kept everyone at arm’s length. It wasn’t hate. It was terror—the kind that comes from being hurt too many times to count. I could see it every time someone tried to get close.

Mason’s dad was a gambling addict. His mom left him for another woman when he was a kid. He grew up with no love, just endless hours of lonely studying and the occasional beating when his dad came home. That was his life.

I remembered the stories, the way people whispered about the Reeds behind their backs. Mason always walked to school alone, never brought anyone home. The weight he carried was bigger than any of us knew. It was like he was carrying a whole mountain on his shoulders, and nobody bothered to ask why.

In my last life, all I knew was that he was withdrawn, cold, a neat freak, and supposedly hated gay people. I liked him. But I was always too chicken to get close.

I’d spent so much time watching from a distance, afraid to cross that invisible line. Now, I was determined to break through, even if it meant making a fool of myself.

This time, after being given a second chance, I did my homework. Mason’s suicide wasn’t just about his dad’s creditors—it was because there was no one in this world he cared about. He just didn’t want to live.

I’d stayed up nights reading old social media posts, trying to piece together what really happened. It was loneliness, not money, that had driven him to the edge. That realization hit me hard.

He’d take his life a month from now. That meant I had a month. Thirty days to make him care.

Thirty days. It sounded impossible, but I’d do anything. I’d become his friend, his enemy, his shadow.

His shadow—whatever it took to keep him here.

So I shamelessly clung to him, just trying to matter.

Even if it was as someone he hated. As long as he stayed alive, I’d take whatever role he gave me.

If I had to be the villain in his story, so be it. At least he’d have someone to fight with, someone who noticed he existed. That was better than nothing, right?

Today was day five.

Day five. Five days of trying, failing, and trying again. I kept a tally in my phone, counting every word he said to me, every glance he threw my way. It was pathetic.

But it kept me going.

Today, Mason said eight words to me. That meant I could live with that.

Eight words. A new record. I wanted to throw a party, but instead, I followed him home like a lovesick puppy. Heart pounding with hope.