Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 7

I’m on a couch.

It’s lumpy and soft in all the right places, like it’s been sat on a thousand times, molded to our shape. The fabric is corduroy, blue, a little faded, and there’s a faint warmth radiating from where she was sitting just moments ago. My fingers drag along the ridges of the cushion, and I think I could stay here forever. It smells like clean cotton, like sun-dried sheets. Familiar. Safe.

The walls around us are soft cream, a little scuffed near the floor like someone moved the furniture too many times and didn’t care. There’s a photo frame tilted on the wall above the television, crooked, but it fits. The sun filters in through blinds half-opened, casting striped shadows across her legs.

She’s sitting next to me, barefoot, knees tucked under her chin, wearing one of my hoodies, oversized, sleeves half covering her hands. Her hair’s a mess, still damp from a shower, and she’s holding a mug with a chip on the rim like it’s a holy relic. She looks at me like I matter.

And for once, I believe it.

Her voice is soft, a little raspy, the kind of voice you fall asleep to. She’s talking about painting the kitchen sage green and putting fairy lights around the porch. She wants a house with too many plants and a dog we’ll spoil like it’s our kid.

I tell her that’s stupid.

She throws a pillow at me. I dodge it. We laugh.

God, we laugh.

And I feel it in my chest, a dull, glowing throb. Like this could be it. Not just a scene. Not just a dream. But something real. Something I’ve been aching for without even knowing it.

But then the air shifts.

Like someone opened a door somewhere off-screen. The room darkens, not all at once, but slowly. Shadows swell in the corners. Her voice grows distant, muffled, like she’s underwater. I try to reach for her hand, but she’s already pulling away. Her mug crashes to the floor, porcelain splintering into a hundred pieces.

Then the scream.

It comes from nowhere, everywhere. Piercing. Familiar.

“Why did you betray me?”

Her voice again, but not the warm one. It’s warped. Broken. It slashes through the room like a blade, and suddenly the house is falling apart, bit by bit, like a sandcastle crumbling under a tide.

The walls peel. The roof splits open. The couch breaks into splinters beneath me. The laughter is gone, replaced by a hollow echo.

And just before the dust swallows everything, just before I finally see her face---

I wake up.

Sweat clings to my skin like a second layer. My shirt’s damp at the back, stuck to me. My throat is dry, like I swallowed dust. I bolt upright, chest heaving, fists clenched around the sheet like I’m still trying to hold on to something I’ve already lost.

I can’t breathe.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand, screen blinding in the dark. One notification:
Betty: Library. 10 mins. Don’t be late.

I let my head fall back onto the pillow, still panting, eyes blinking against the ceiling fan slowly spinning above me.

And all I can hear is that voice.

That same voice from the dream. Not screaming this time, but soft, patient, real.

Her voice.

And I swear I’ve heard it somewhere before.