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Déjà vu.
def: The phenomenon of feeling as though one has lived through the present situation before.
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Jacob stared at the baseball glove over his hand. He looked up at the field in front of him.
The summer sun bore down on the dusty diamond, its light casting long shadows across the grass. The chatter of kids echoed around him, blending with the familiar thwack of a bat meeting a ball. He flexed his fingers around the worn leather seams of the glove, the texture pressing into his skin like a memory resurfacing from deep within his subconscious.
This had happened before.
Am I in a dream?
The way Danny Winters stood at home plate, smirking like he always did. The way Coach Thompson barked orders from the dugout. Even the way the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the faint smell of hot dogs from the concession stand. It was the same—every single detail.
"Jacob, you alright?" Danny's voice broke through his thoughts.
Jacob blinked, startled. "Uh... yeah. Just zoned out."
"Don't blow it again," Danny teased, tossing his bat in the air before catching it. "We need the out this time."
Again.
The city loomed behind him, the high walls where most of them lived. Here was a small patch of heaven and grass. The clouds loomed up. It was always cloudy.
Was it ever sunny here? He tried to think of the last time it had been sunny.
"Jacob, heads up!" Danny Winters called from center field.
Jacob turned, his heart racing. He'd been here before—every detail matched the memory etched into his brain. The kids shouting from the dugout. The faint smell of hot dogs wafting from the snack stand. Even Danny's smirk as he adjusted his cap.
The ball was flying toward him now, a lazy arc slicing through the bright blue sky. He knew what would happen next. He would reach up to catch it, and the ball would glance off his glove, skimming past his fingers. The batter would round the bases, and Coach Thompson would throw his hat to the ground in frustration.
But Jacob didn't move.
Not this time.
The ball hung in the air, impossibly slow, as though time itself had paused to mock him. His heart pounded in his chest. Was this the moment where it all reset again?
He clenched his glove tighter.
"Catch it!" Danny shouted.
Jacob flinched but stayed frozen, his mind spinning. The déjà vu wasn't just a nagging feeling anymore—it was certainty. He'd lived this exact moment dozens of times, and no matter what he did, it always reset. The ball. The error. The endless loop.
