The steam from my coffee rose like a comforting sigh, a familiar ritual anchoring the quiet morning. I lifted the mug, its weight a steady presence, the ceramic cool against my palm. Just as I inhaled its warmth, ready for that first sip, the jolt hit. Not a sound, not a tremor, but a violent, inward rupture – a sudden, bone-deep crack somewhere behind my eyes that stole the air from my lungs.
My grip spasmed, the mug threatening to slip as my fingers went instantly numb. Reality didn't just blur or distort; it shredded. The predictable flow of seconds didn't just stop; they knotted, each moment stretching into an impossible, grinding eternity while others colpsed upon themselves. My familiar kitchen didn't simply look wrong; it felt wrong, the very air vibrating with unseen tension, its stable dimensions warping like soft cy under immense, invisible pressure. Distance vanished. It wasn't empty space but a tangible, crumpling fabric that pressed in, heavy and suffocating. The distant sigh of highway traffic, the sweet, faint smell from the downtown bakery, the biting, unnatural chill of arctic air – they weren't just heard or smelled; they were violently shoved into my face, a raw, physical assault against my skin.
And then, vision became a viotion. The bnd pster of the walls didn't hide; it simply peeled away, revealing the pulsing, hidden network of pipes and wiring beneath. The floorboards dissolved under my gaze, exposing the packed earth and cold bedrock below my feet. The ceiling thinned to a shimmering membrane, hinting at the dizzying, unfathomable sprawl of stars pressing just beyond the bright morning sun. This wasn't just seeing. Something tore open inside me, a silent, everywhere void that flooded my mind not with thoughts, but with raw, forgotten details that fred into instant, searing crity – like a cascade of burning photographs. And through it all, my single 'I', the quiet anchor of my perception, didn't just understand; it fractured. It wasn't one mind anymore, but dozens, hundreds, each fragment a raw, screaming facet of awareness, echoing inside my head, a frantic, panicked chorus of myself. My chest seized, my hands clenched into useless fists, trembling.
As this unnatural flood of sensation overloaded every nerve, the familiar kitchen around me seemed to groan and buckle. The low hum of the refrigerator didn't just stop; it snapped out of existence, leaving a sudden, alien silence. Sound didn't dissolve; it was ripped away. The soft tick-tock of the wall clock froze mid-tick, the second hand a rigid needle, time itself becoming a physical presence, holding everything in a vice-like grip. The lingering scent of toast was yanked from the air, leaving a sharp, choking vacuum that felt like drowning. Outside the window, a bird hung motionless, a perfect, unreal sculpture suspended against the gss, its tiny wings locked mid-beat.
A silence fell that wasn't merely the absence of noise, but a crushing, physical pressure against my eardrums, heavy and suffocating, locking the world in a single, terrified frame. Awe and a sickening, dizzying pull warred violently in my gut against a primal, screaming terror I couldn't vocalize. My heart hammered against the stillness, a frantic, unheard drumbeat trapped in that frozen moment, my throat tight, unable to pull a proper breath.
Then, with the sudden, violent crack of a cable under impossible tension, the world sprang back into existence. Sound smmed in – the refrigerator hummed, the clock resumed its frantic ticking, the bird outside gave a sudden chirp and darted away. The entire, shattering age I'd just endured felt like it should have sted a lifetime, yet outside of me, it couldn't have been more than the space of a single, choked breath.
The violent influx ceased, leaving a strange quiet in its wake. But the change was undeniable. In that terrifying, fractured moment, I had somehow, inexplicably, acquired abilities – superpowers.
Yet, despite this reality-shattering infusion of power, the world outside remained stubbornly unchanged. No bck-suited agents burst through the door, no alien probes descended from the sky. My life, it seemed, wasn't sted for a dramatic upheaval. I harbored no grand ambitions of rewriting history or donning a cape of justice. In truth, my existence leaned heavily towards the ordinary: homework, family meals, the usual ebb and flow of teenage social drama. Purely, resolutely Mundane with a capital 'M'. If my life were a novel, it'd be shelved in the 'slice-of-life, possibly dull' section. It felt almost insulting, like these incredible abilities were addressed to a destined hero, someone meant to protect the innocent, but thanks to some cosmic postal error, they’d nded on my doorstep instead. Tough luck, chosen one. Maybe try customer service for a refund?
Lost in these bewildering thoughts, I must have been staring intently at my mug, because my mother’s voice cut through the haze. "Rey, if you keep staring at that coffee like it owes you money, it might actually get up and leave," she said, pushing her ptop aside with a sigh.
The cup felt normal, looked normal, was normal—the same milky, sugary concoction I drank every morning. Yet, after what had just happened, a kernel of suspicion lingered. Could I even trust my senses anymore? "No, it's nothing," I managed, forcing a nervous smile. "Just... thought this morning's coffee tasted particurly good." Blurting out 'I think I just got superpowers' wasn't exactly an option, not unless I wanted a one-way ticket to a psych evaluation. I couldn't even be sure I wasn't already losing my mind.
"Is that what you call coffee? It's just milk and sugar with a hint of coffee," my father chimed in, his devotion to bck coffee unwavering. "Coffee is the elixir that propels you through those grueling nights of hard work," he procimed, a mantra I’d heard countless times.
“I mean, bck coffee is just bitter so…” I countered, falling into our familiar routine.
"Bsphemy!" my father decred dramatically. "Don't you know that bck coffee is the one true coffee and that everything else is an affront to the good name of this miraculous beverage? Don't you agree, Lily?"
"You're absolutely right," my mother agreed solemnly, holding up her cup… of tea. Her recent defection from Team Coffee was a running gag. A beat of silence, then we all burst into ughter, the easy, stomach-aching kind that often filled our house when we were together. This kind of over-the-top banter was our family's brand of normal.
My mother, the Editor-in-Chief, and my father, the CEO and accomplished author, ran the publishing company he’d founded with the success of his books. They'd met through their shared love of literature—he the aspiring writer, she the insightful editor. Their story was a blend of passion and partnership. They often worked from home, which meant they were a near-constant presence in my life. A blessing, mostly, though sometimes I wished for a bit more space, especially when friends visited and Mom unched into her 'what a wonderful child Rey is' routine, complete with pleas for more frequent visits. The memory alone could trigger mild PTSD.
The ughter subsided, but my mother's gaze remained on me, a flicker of concern repcing the amusement. “Rey, seeing you ugh makes me happy. For a moment there, I thought you were still worried about… well, about today.”
Her words punctured the lighthearted mood. My father, sensing the shift towards more delicate territory, predictably retreated behind his ptop screen, leaving the emotional heavy lifting to Mom, as usual. Until the power surge moments ago, my primary worry had been centered around 'that.' Around Iris.
My immediate family isn't just my parents and me. There's Iris, my adopted elder sister. We welcomed her into our home five years ago after her parents were tragically killed in a car accident. She was eleven then. Today is the day she moves out, determined to start living independently. And the thought had been twisting my insides for weeks.
As if summoned by the thought, she appeared in the doorway. “Good morning,” Iris said, her voice soft, her gaze finding mine. Her straight silvery hair was slightly tousled, framing a face dominated by striking blue eyes still clouded with sleep, yet etched with a mixture of determination and sadness. Her lips were pressed into a thin line that trembled slightly. Dressed in rumpled pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt, with a worn fleece robe hanging open, she looked vulnerable, yet the way she tightly csped her hands betrayed the storm of emotions within.
One look, and a wave of sorrow washed over me. I couldn't meet her eyes, turning my gaze away. Finding the words felt impossible right now. Part of me wanted to rage: Why are you leaving? Aren't we family? Didn't you say we meant as much as your biological parents? Was that all a lie? But the words caught in my throat. Voicing them felt selfish, even if true. We hadn't really spoken in two weeks, the tension building into this strained silence.
"Sorry," I mumbled, standing abruptly, "but I got to go now or I'll be te for school." It was a lie. The silence was suffocating, and I couldn't face the unspoken farewell hanging between us. I needed to escape, not ready to say goodbye.
Walking towards the train station, the morning's strange events surged back to the forefront of my mind. Was it real? Or was I cracking up? As if in answer, a menu-like interface superimposed itself on my vision. 'Seeing' wasn't quite the right word; it was more like activating a new sense, like donning a mental VR headset.
Main Skill Menu [Save & load S] [Point Transfer S] [Item Box B] [Third Eye A] [Alter Ego EX]
It looked uncannily like a GUI window, probably tailored to my own tpreferences. And it felt… familiar. Ah! These 'skills,' their names, their cssifications (F to S, with the unique EX tier)—they were straight out of a novel I'd read. A novel whose unfinished story revolved around a protagonist protecting loved ones from other skill holders, using powers remarkably simir to the ones now listed before me.
And the author of that novel? Iris's father.
The coincidence was staggering, linking my new, unbelievable reality directly back to the very person I was currently running from. My mind reeled, juggling the weight of Iris's departure and the sudden manifestation of these fictional powers. Dwelling on the 'why' felt pointless right now. The immediate question was: is this real? I needed proof. I needed to test it.
The [Save & load S] skill, mimicking a video game mechanic, seemed the most logical starting point. Tapping it mentally brought up a sub-menu.
Sub Skill Menu[Save & load S]Slot 01: [2025-04-04-07:33] Slot 02: [empty] Slot 03: [empty] Slot 04: [empty] Slot 05: [empty]
The station clock read 08:10. I checked the first slot – 07:33. It must have auto-saved the moment I gained awareness, right around the time the world froze in the kitchen. Interesting. I could potentially reload that moment, go back, face Iris… The thought made my stomach clench. Cowardice warred with curiosity. Maybe test it with a less emotionally charged moment first?
I mentally selected the second slot, saving the current time: 08:15.
Sub Skill Menu[Save & load S]Slot 01: [2025-04-04-07:33]Slot 02: [2025-04-04-08:15]Slot 03: [empty]Slot 04: [empty]Slot 05: [empty]
I watched the station clock tick to 08:16. Then, focusing on Slot 02, I mentally 'clicked' load.
Instantly, the world reset. The clock snapped back to 08:15. People subtly shifted positions, a bird that had flown overhead vanished, the sunlight brightened as a cloud shadow retreated. It wasn't fshy – no cinematic effects, no physical sensation. It felt as simple as clicking on a video timeline. Yet, the world had rewound by one minute. As the seconds ticked forward again, reaching 08:16, everything reverted: people resumed their paths, the bird reappeared, the cloud shadow returned.
Anticlimactic, yet profound. Everyone here moved along their predetermined tracks, while I had just stepped off mine, even for only a minute. The potential was staggering. This ability could change things. Maybe even… fix things?
The thought tched onto the raw wound of my earlier escape from the kitchen. Iris. Could I have reloaded? Gone back to 07:33, faced her, said something instead of fleeing like a coward? The idea sent a fresh wave of shame through me. Reloading felt like cheating, like erasing not just a mistake, but the consequence, the feeling of that moment. It wouldn't change the fact that I had run. And what would I even say? The tangle of grief, possessiveness, and resentment I felt about her leaving wasn't something a simple rewind could untangle or excuse. It felt too deep, too complex, too rooted in five years of shared life and sudden loss for a quick fix. Facing her required genuine courage, not a cosmic undo button. The power felt useless there, almost mocking.
But other regrets… other failures… they weren't all the same. Some weren't about messy, ongoing emotions, but about specific moments, specific failures of nerve or action. Moments frozen in time not by superpowers, but by inaction. Like the silence that had stretched between me and…
Lost in this heady realization, sitting on a station bench, I barely registered someone sitting down beside me until a familiar presence settled nearby. Rose. My cssmate, my desk neighbor. We exchanged nods daily, but little else. She always seemed reserved, valuing her privacy. Chestnut brown hair in soft waves, bright green eyes full of quiet intelligence, fair skin – she sat there in her school uniform, looking as she always did.
Should I say something? The old hesitation resurfaced, the fear of awkwardness, the weight of unspoken history. It wasn't just shyness. From an outsider's view, it might look like the start of a clumsy romance – boy likes girl, too scared to talk. But the reality was heavier, a constant, dull ache of guilt. Rose had been one of my closest friends. Until the accident st year. The accident that stole her memories, turning our friendship into this awkward dance of strangers.
And I couldn't shake the feeling, the burden, that I was somehow responsible. Unlike the complicated sorrow surrounding Iris's departure, this felt different. Sharper. A specific point of failure. Maybe... maybe I could start here.
"Do you have any knowledge about bck holes?" Rose asked abruptly, setting aside the book she'd been reading. Her sudden question pierced my thoughts.
This was the first time she'd initiated a conversation since… well, since everything changed. A tangle of emotions – surprise, sadness, a flicker of hope – welled up. I tried to push down the sorrow that always surfaced when I looked into her eyes, summoning a smile that probably looked stiff. "Uh, yeah, a bit," I managed, struggling for composure. "A bck hole is… super dense, right? Gravity so strong nothing escapes, not even light."
"Exactly," Rose said, her gaze distant.
"But what fascinates me isn't the hole itself. It's kind of a misnomer, isn't it? Neither bck nor a hole. We only know it's there because of what's around it."
"You mean how its surroundings signal its presence, even though you can't see the thing itself?" I asked, catching her drift.
"Yes. What falls in is lost forever. It reminds me..." She sighed, closing her eyes briefly.
"When I woke up in the hospital, I sensed this… void. Not in me, exactly, but around me.
In the way people—family, friends, they said—looked at me, like they were searching for someone who wasn't there. A flicker of sadness when they didn't find her. I couldn't grasp it then, but the feeling lingered. A hollowness. Especially with my friends, I felt this missing piece, something I couldn't reach." Her voice grew quieter. "Like you said, 'Not even light can escape.' That description… it hits differently now, even knowing it's about astrophysics."
Her words weren't just about cosmology; they were a gentle, indirect reflection of her own experience, maybe even a subtle query aimed at the silence between us. What makes a person different from a lifeless void if they remain unreachable? Her analogy resonated deeply with my own feelings of guilt and inaction.
An idea sparked, fueled by her words and the strange power humming within me. I stood up, extending my hand as if inviting her to a formal dance. Surprised but intrigued, Rose mirrored the gesture, pcing her hand in mine. Our movements felt unexpectedly smooth, without hesitation.
The moment our hands touched, I activated [Third Eye A], sharing the vision. The ground beneath us didn't literally dissolve, but the perception did. The familiar station faded, repced by a swirling canvas of stars. The effect spread outwards, engulfing the buildings, the city, the sky itself, until we were seemingly suspended in the void of deep space, only the bench beneath us remaining as an anchor to reality.
Rose gasped, her eyes wide with astonishment. But I wasn't finished. Still holding her hand, I gestured with my free hand towards the cosmic vista. The static starfield erupted into motion. Gaxies streaked past, stars became lines of light, simuting an impossible journey through the cosmos at faster-than-light speeds. The universe seemed to contract before us, accelerating until the view settled on a breathtaking spectacle: a colossal bck sphere dominating the view, distant yet immense, ringed by a swirling, luminous accretion disk – the captured light of a star being devoured. The ethereal glow around it marked the point of no return she had just spoken of.
“Rose,” I said, my voice steady now, meeting her amazed gaze. The cosmic backdrop amplified the weight of my next words. “The reason I haven’t tried to rebuild our friendship… it wasn’t just because of your memory loss. That day… it wasn’t an accident.”
Her eyes widened further, shock mixing with the wonder reflected from the simuted universe surrounding us. The question about bck holes was forgotten, repced by the impossible sight and the gravity of my confession. For the first time in a year, the guardedness in her expression seemed to crack, repced by genuine astonishment. In that shared moment of cosmic awe and sudden revetion, a fragile bridge seemed to form across the chasm that had separated us.
The astonishment lingered, but slowly, something else surfaced in Rose's eyes – a thoughtful assessment, a dawning recognition that went beyond the cosmic dispy. Her gaze dropped for a moment, then met mine again, the initial shock tempered by a weary kind of understanding. A faint, complex smile touched her lips. "So that's what it was," she murmured, almost to herself.
"I knew something was there, Rey. This past year... the way you'd look away, the heavy silence whenever our paths crossed. It felt... significant." She paused, drawing a breath, the simuted stars glinting in her eyes. "People told me, you know. My parents, my friends... they told me how close we were before. What kind of person I was." She tilted her head, her expression searching, not accusatory. "Losing memories is strange. It's like reading a book about yourself. You learn the facts, the personality traits." Her voice grew steadier. "And based on everything I've gathered, everything I feel must be true about the girl I was... did you honestly think she would bme you? That that version of Rose would hate you for... whatever this was?" Her quiet gaze held mine. "Because listening to you now, seeing this... this honesty... I don't feel bme. Just... sadness for whatever weight you've been carrying alone."
Her calm acceptance was like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs more effectively than the initial power surge. It was wrong. All wrong. This gentleness, this understanding – it was the st thing I deserved, the st thing I wanted. It felt like a dismissal of the monumental nature of my failure. "No," the word scraped out, raw and rejecting. The fragile bridge didn't just feel precarious; it felt wrong, an insult to the wreckage I knew I'd caused.
"No! You don't understand! You can't understand, not really." I surged to my feet, the cosmic illusion swirling around my agitation. "It wasn't just an 'accident' that happened near me! It was a consequence, a direct result!"
My voice rose, desperate now to shatter her composure, to make her see the vilin she refused to acknowledge. "There was a kid, constantly bullied. And you, always you, stepping in front of him like a shield. Noble, right? Except the bullies couldn't retaliate against you. They were afraid of me, lurking in the background. So every time you defended him, they doubled down on him ter, twisting your kindness into his punishment. And I knew it! I saw it happening!" I paced, gesturing wildly against the backdrop of swirling gaxies. "And what did I do? Nothing! I hid behind some arrogant, detached philosophy about self-reliance, telling myself pity was poison, that letting him struggle was for his own good. Pathetic!"
I spun back to face her, leaning in, needing her to see the ugliness. "I watched the pressure build, fueled by my presence and my deliberate, chosen silence! I let it fester, let him crack under the weight that I allowed to be pced on him because of your actions and their fear of me. Until he finally snapped. That moment, that burst of anger, him shoving you... it wasn't just him! It was the inevitable endpoint of the situation I cultivated through neglect! My inaction, my refusal to step in when I easily could have stopped it all – that's what put you by that window! My cowardice, masquerading as principle, is why you fell! So don't you dare sit there and offer me understanding!" My voice cracked, desperation overriding the anger.
"Look at me! Look at the damage I caused! You should hate me, Rose. Please... you have to hate me."
The cosmic illusion faded as the train's arrival announcement echoed through the station, pulling us back to mundane reality. Rose blinked, the residual awe dissolving into a complex storm of emotions. The initial shock was still there, yes, but now yered with the raw impact of my confession, my self-condemnation, my desperate plea for her hatred. She looked at me, really looked at me, her expression no longer just guarded or astonished, but deeply troubled, searching, perhaps even pitying – which felt like the sharpest blow of all.
That fragile bridge hadn't just felt precarious; it felt fundamentally fwed, built on her incomplete understanding and my desperate need for condemnation she refused to provide.
My heart hammered, not just from the lingering power but from shame and a rising panic. I had id everything bare, painted myself the vilin, demanded her anger... and she'd met it with a calm sadness rooted in second-hand knowledge of who she used to be. It was wrong. This wasn't resolution; it was a different kind of impasse. Her ck of bme didn't feel like forgiveness; it felt like she didn't grasp the true weight, the sheer culpability, because the memories weren't hers.
My outburst hadn't enlightened her; it had likely just confused and burdened her further, pushing her towards pity instead of the righteous anger I felt I deserved. This path, this raw, immediate confrontation fueled by my own self-loathing, wasn't right either. It hadn't led to understanding, only to a messy, painful exposure that left us both reeling in different ways.
My gaze flickered to the skill menu, the familiar interface a stark contrast to the emotional chaos. [Alter Ego EX]. The idea resurfaced, but its purpose subtly shifted. Not just to prepare the ground, but to attempt a repair at a deeper level.
Could it help restore not just memories, but the feeling, the context she needed to truly understand what happened, what I did? Not to force forgiveness or condemnation, but to give her back the foundation upon which a real judgment, whatever it might be, could eventually stand. It wouldn't absolve me, but maybe it could give her the agency back that both the memory loss and my desperate confession had, in different ways, stripped away. A way to gently re-seed her inner ndscape so that when this conversation inevitably happened again, she could face it whole.
Ethically murky? Absolutely. But facing the complex pity in her eyes, the result of my own failed attempt at truth, it felt like the only path forward that didn't involve simply running away or doubling down on this painful, unproductive honesty.
The train screeched to a halt, doors hissing open. People shuffled around us. Rose still hadn't spoken, lost in processing the impossible weight I'd just dropped on her. I needed to act. Okay. Save. Mentally, I designated Slot 03, capturing this moment: 08:25, post-meltdown, train arriving, Rose grappling with unwanted pity.
Sub Skill Menu[Save & load S]Slot 01: [2025-04-04-07:33]Slot 02: [2025-04-04-08:15]Slot 03: [2025-04-04-08:25]Slot 04: [empty]Slot 05: [empty]
Then, focusing inward, pouring intent into [Alter Ego EX]: 'Create an aspect of myself, linked to Rose. Objective: Access subconscious during sleep. Recreate shared positive memories AND the emotional context surrounding the incident, gently stimuting recall and understanding. Operate discreetly. Avoid distress.' The familiar subtle division occurred, a silent extension of my consciousness splitting off, its mission now more complex, more perilous. Done.
Now, the crucial step. My focus snapped to Slot 02: [08:15] – the moment just before Rose sat down, before our talk, before the confession, before everything went sideways. Load.
The world stuttered, resetting. The train wasn't there yet. Rose was just approaching the bench, book in hand, gncing around as she looked for a pce to sit. The intense conversation, the cosmic dispy, my raw confession, her quiet refusal to bme, my desperate plea for hate – all wiped clean from the timeline, existing only as a searing, instructive memory for me.
But the Alter Ego persisted, tasked with its deeper, more intricate mission. The immediate, agonizing pressure was gone, repced by the heavy, morally ambiguous weight of this secret intervention. I hadn't just avoided bluntness; I had recoiled from a truth poorly delivered and poorly received, choosing instead to subtly influence her very capacity for understanding before trying again. It felt less like cowardice than like a necessary, albeit deeply maniputive, course correction. I stood up quietly as the train finally pulled in, its arrival perfectly aligning with the reset 08:15 timeframe.
I boarded, leaving Rose to find her seat, utterly unaware of the impossible, ethically fraught effort just initiated on her behalf, a secret designed to eventually let her judge me properly, when the right time comes.
