Lance sat in his favorite armchair by the largest window, where dust motes danced in the golden light. His borrowed copy of "The Great Gatsby" lay open on his lap, its pages slightly yellowed and corners softened by countless readers before him. The ambient noises of typing and whispered conversations filled the air as students lingered around him, frozen in their eternal afternoon routines. The familiar scent of aged paper and leather bindings surrounded him, a constant presence in his endless cycle.

He'd read this same passage at least fifty times—perhaps more. He lost count around the twentieth iteration. The words about Gatsby's green light had lost their meaning, becoming a blur of symbols marking the passage of time. Each reset brought him back to this moment, this chair, this page, with accumulated memories pressing against his skull. This time, he couldn't focus on the text. Instead, his eyes wandered to the psychology section, its neat rows of spines visible through shelving gaps, promising undiscovered answers.

Rising from his chair, Lance's joints cracked from sitting too long—though "too long" had become relative in his looped existence. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he moved through the stacks, fingers trailing along book spines in search of anything relevant. The psychology section smelled mustier than the rest, less frequently visited. "Time and Human Experience," "The Psychology of Time Perception," "Temporal Distortions in Human Cognition"—he pulled them all, creating a precarious tower in his arms. Each book represented another potential path to understanding, another chance to make sense of his situation.

"Building yourself a fort?" Maya's voice startled him, nearly causing him to drop the stack. She appeared around the corner like a splash of color in the muted library palette, her blue-streaked hair catching the light. She wore her oversized painting shirt, smudged with oils from her morning studio session, the bright yellows and deep blues of her current project visible in the stains. He knew she’d been in the library from previous loops, but he hadn’t been expecting her.

Lance managed a smile, though it felt strained beneath his unshared burden. "Just some light reading." He'd spoken with her before, in different variations across loops. Sometimes he'd tell her about his endless cycle, watching her face shift from concern to disbelief before the reset erased it all. Sometimes he'd deflect entirely. This time, he chose something in between, testing a new approach. "Ever wonder why time feels different depending on what you're doing? I’ve been researching, but it’s overwhelming."

Maya helped him carry the books back to his spot, her silver rings clicking against the hardcover spines in a metallic rhythm. The afternoon light caught her jewelry, sending tiny reflections dancing across the ceiling. "Like how three hours in the studio feels like twenty minutes, but twenty minutes in art history feels like three hours?" She settled into the chair opposite him, pulling out her sketchbook. The pages were already half-filled with quick studies of other library patrons, captured in swift, confident strokes. "I think it's just how brains work."

"Maybe," Lance replied, opening the first psychology text. The pages released a puff of dust, adding to the motes dancing in the sunbeam. "Or maybe time isn't as fixed as we think."

He glanced at the clock tower through the window, its faces showing different times, mocking him with their discordant displays. The sight had once filled him with panic; now it was just another familiar element of his trapped existence.

Maya noticed his distracted gaze and offered a comforting smile. "Sometimes, changing how you perceive things can make a big difference. Have you tried focusing on something outside your analysis?"

Lance shook his head, flipping a page. "I've been too caught up in finding patterns. Maybe I need to step back a bit."

She nodded thoughtfully, adjusting her sketchbook. "Taking a break might help clear your mind. Or, you know, doing something different altogether."

"Like what?" he asked, intrigued by her suggestion.

"Well, since you're so analytical, maybe try engaging with the material in a hands-on way. Draw the concepts, visualize them. Sometimes visual representation can unlock new insights."

Lance considered her words, feeling a spark of inspiration. "That's not a bad idea. I could try mapping out the theories visually."

Maya smiled, her eyes encouraging. "Exactly. And if you need any sketches to help illustrate your thoughts, I'm here."

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"Thanks, Maya. I appreciate it," he said, feeling a bit lighter from the conversation.

She returned his smile and began sketching a few lines, her pencil moving deftly across the paper. "No problem. Sometimes collaboration can lead to breakthroughs you might not achieve alone."

As Maya continued her sketching, Lance turned back to his psychology texts with a refreshed perspective. He began checking sections on cognitive flexibility and the malleability of time perception, making connections between the theories and his own experiences.

After a while, Maya glanced at her watch. "I should get going. Got a few more things I need to finish, but it was nice to relax."

"Thanks for the help, Maya," Lance replied, feeling a sense of camaraderie.

She stood up, gathering her sketchbook and the remaining books they'd carried. "Anytime, Lance."

With a final smile, Maya walked away, leaving Lance with a renewed sense of purpose. He dove deeper into the psychology texts, jotting down notes and visualizing the concepts she had suggested. “If I can alter my perception intentionally, maybe there's a way to influence the loop,” he mused.

But just as he began to piece together a potential strategy, the familiar sensation built—the pressure behind his eyes, the colors blending, reality stretching and snapping back.

[RESET]

Sunlight streamed through the library's Gothic windows. Lance found himself back in the armchair, "Gatsby" faithfully waiting. This time, he chose a different approach. With a sudden surge of movement, he sprang up, marched to the library's circulation counter, and announced to the wide-eyed librarian, "I'm caught in a temporal cycle, and I've devoured this book thirty-seven times."

Mrs. Patel peered through her substantial lenses, blinking with an air of scholarly distraction. "I'm sorry?"

"Never mind," Lance sighed, feeling the pressure building behind his eyes. "The loop's about to reset anyway. But you might want to check out that book on temporal physics in the reference section—page 394 has coffee stains that look exactly like Einstein's face."

[RESET]

Another beginning. This time, Lance remained in his chair but turned it to face the rest of the room. He spent the loop studying faces, memorizing details, creating stories for each person trapped in this afternoon with him. The girl with red hair and grass stains on her jeans—she'd probably been playing frisbee before coming to study. The boy with ink-stained fingers nervously tapping his pencil—likely working on his manga series between classes. The elderly man in the corner who didn't seem to be a student at all—what brought him here?

Lance started sketching them in his notebook, something he'd never done before. It gave him purpose, a way to document this endless moment. There was something therapeutic about creating these portraits, about leaving some mark of his observation, even if it would vanish with the next reset.

[RESET]

This time, he went to a different building entirely, taking a walk through one of the lecture halls. The spacious, echoing room felt unfamiliar compared to the cozy confines of the library. He was four doors down the hall when a sudden crash from around the corner made him jump. A student had collapsed, lying motionless on the floor. Lance rushed forward, his first-aid training kicking in. His hand softly pressed against her shoulder as he knelt beside her. "Are you alright?" he murmured, his fingers pressed against the neck.

The student remained still, eyes closed. Just then, a couple of other students hurried over, one pulling out his phone to call for help. "Someone call an ambulance!" one of them exclaimed, while another knelt beside Lance to assist.

Lance looked around, noticing the hall was unusually quiet except for the concerned whispers and the sound of the phone dialing. "She's not responding," he said, trying to stay calm. "But she seems to be breathing okay."

A teacher from down the hall approached, her expression urgent. "What happened here?" she asked, kneeling beside them.

Before Lance could respond, the familiar sensation began to build—the pressure behind his eyes, the colors blending, reality stretching and snapping back with a jolt.

[RESET]

Back in the chair. Lance's heart was still racing from the previous loop. He thought for a long moment, wondering if he should try to warn the student about whatever had caused her collapse. But would it matter? The warning wouldn’t persist through the next reset. Did anything he did truly matter in this endless afternoon?

Feeling the need for some company, he sent Reid a text. The weight of his questions drew him out of his chair and toward the library's massive windows. Outside, campus life continued its choreographed routine—students crossing the quad, professors hurrying to meetings, tour groups following their guides like ducklings. All of them moving forward in time while he remained stuck, a skip in the cosmic record.

Reid eventually appeared at his elbow, fresh from tennis practice as always. "You look philosophical today," he observed, his court shoes squeaking on the polished floor.

Lance turned to his friend, studying the familiar features as if seeing them for the first time. "If you could live one moment over and over again, would you? Or would you rather live life normally, knowing everything was permanent?"

Reid's brow furrowed as he considered the question. "Depends on the moment, I guess. And whether you could change things or had to repeat exactly the same actions."

"What if you could change your actions but not the outcome? If everything always reset to the same point, no matter what you did?"

"That sounds more like hell than heaven," Reid replied, unconsciously touching the old watch he always wore—his grandfather's timepiece. "What's bringing this on?"

Lance was about to respond when he noticed something odd about Reid's watch. The hands were moving backward, ticking away seconds in reverse.

[RESET]