I don’t even remember the number of times I’ve restarted, only to lose my family again and again.

Each time, the same suffocating darkness would cover me, and then I would wake to the familiar sounds of birds chirping and my wife’s gentle voice urging me to start the day.

It was as though the universe had trapped me in a loop of despair, where no amount of effort, no level of caution could save them.

Despite everything I tried—each desperate, frantic attempt to alter our fate—somehow, they would always slip through my fingers.

Sometimes, it would take just days; other times, I might hold onto them for weeks, even months.

But the ending was always the same.

I would lose them, and the pain of their loss would tear through me like a knife, over and over.

The causes of their deaths were as varied as they were cruel.

One day, it was a sudden electrical discharge that set the house ablaze.

Another time, an earthquake struck without warning, shattering everything in its path, including the lives I was trying so hard to protect.

Or it might be something as ordinary as a road accident, a moment of lost control on a slippery street.

No matter how mundane or how unexpected, the result was always the same: I would watch them die, helpless, and then the darkness would come for me once more.

It felt as though I was cursed, doomed to lose them repeatedly, to experience that unimaginable pain again and again.

I began to dread waking up, knowing what lay ahead, knowing that no matter how hard I fought, it was all for nothing.

And with each cycle, the darkness would return, swallowing me whole.

I would close my eyes, feeling the heavy weight of my own failure, and the next thing I knew, I would be back at the beginning—back to the same day, the same routine, the same unbearable hope that this time, maybe this time, it would be different.

But it never was.

At first, I was filled with anxiety, confusion, and frustration.

I questioned everything, trying to find some logic, some reason behind this endless torment.

But slowly, those emotions began to fade.

The fear, the despair, even the anger—they all started to drain away, leaving behind only a hollow emptiness that seemed to grow with each repetition.

Now, as I stand here once again in the darkness, I can’t help but notice something different.

It’s as if the darkness itself has become almost… comforting.

A refuge from the torment of waking life. It wraps around me like a blanket, shielding me from the agony of my endless failures.

Or perhaps, it’s just another cruel illusion, another trick of the mind to keep me from breaking under the weight of it all.

When my eyes opened again, I was greeted by the same scene as always.

My wife and daughter stood before me, dressed in the same clothes they had worn on that fateful day.

Their faces, usually so full of life, were now etched with concern, their eyes searching mine for answers, for reassurance.

But I couldn’t bring myself to reach out to them.

My arms felt like lead, weighed down by the fear that if I touched them, they would vanish—just like they had so many times before.

They seemed like ghosts, fragile and ephemeral, ready to dissolve into nothingness the moment I made contact.

Instead, I buried my face in my hands, my mind racing with questions I had no answers for.

What do I need to do to end this?

The thought gnawed at me, relentless and unyielding.

Why is this happening?

My thoughts spiraled, consumed by confusion and despair.

Why us? Just why? Why over and over again?

The questions echoed in my mind, a maddening refrain that I knew no one could answer.

Yet, despite knowing this, I couldn’t stop the torrent of thoughts from flooding my brain.

The same words kept repeating, relentless and unyielding.

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Why? Why? Just why?

And then, as if in response to my tortured thoughts, a voice pierced through the chaos.

It wasn’t the comforting voice of my wife or the sweet sound of my daughter, but something else entirely—eerie, unsettling, and deeply unnatural.

It seemed to slither into my ears, cold and ominous, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Do you want to know the answer?"

The words were chilling, as if they carried a truth that I wasn’t prepared to face.

My heart skipped a beat, and I reflexively turned my head, my breath catching in my throat.

There, standing in the shadows, was the figure I had seen before.

It was the same dark silhouette, hovering at the edge of my vision, just as it had the last time.

But now, it felt more real, more present—an embodiment of the fear and dread that had haunted me for so long.

He stood there, ominous and unyielding, behind my wife and daughter.

His presence was dark and unnatural, and yet, they didn’t notice him.

It was as if they were frozen in time—still, unblinking, like statues in a surreal nightmare.

My heart pounded in my chest, a wave of dread crashing over me as I realized that whatever was happening, it was beyond anything I could comprehend.

“Who are you?” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling with fear and uncertainty.

“Me?” The figure’s voice was cold and detached, as if the question itself was irrelevant.

He started to move, his steps slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment.

As he drew closer, something terrifying happened.

My wife and daughter, the only two people grounding me in this twisted reality, began to blur.

Their faces, once so full of life and concern, started to dissolve, turning into a shimmering haze of light.

I reached out desperately, trying to touch them, to hold onto them, but my fingers grasped nothing but air.

Before my eyes, they disintegrated into particles of light, scattering like ashes in the wind.

The shadowy figure was already mere inches away, his presence overwhelming and suffocating.

Our eyes suddenly met, and I stumbled back, my heart racing with a mix of fear and disbelief.

There was something familiar about his face, something that sent a cold shiver down my spine.

I looked at him again, more closely this time, and the shock hit me like a tidal wave.

“Who are you?” I demanded again, but this time, my voice was tinged with anger, a desperate need to break through the madness.

The figure smiled, a cruel and twisted imitation of a human expression.

“Can’t you see? I’m your friend Steve.”

My breath caught in my throat as I stared at him in horror.

The features were unmistakable—the same eyes, the same smile, the same face that belonged to my best friend, Steve.

But there was something terribly wrong.

This wasn’t Steve. It couldn’t be.

“Don’t mess with me,” I spat, my voice growing more desperate, more enraged.

I stepped forward and grabbed his collar, pulling him closer as if I could force the truth out of him.

“I know you’re not Steve. Tell me who you are!”

The figure didn’t resist.

He simply stared at me, that sickening smile still plastered on his face, as if he was enjoying my torment.

The anger in me surged, boiling over into a rage that I could barely contain.

My fists tightened around his collar, my knuckles white with the intensity of my grip.

"Okay. Okay. Calm down! Let’s talk it out." The figure’s voice shifted, losing its edge, as if trying to soothe the storm inside me.

But it only made my skin crawl, the false comfort seeping into my bones.

Before I could react, the room dissolved, melting away like a nightmare at dawn.

The walls disappeared, replaced by an endless stretch of grassland under a sky that was both familiar and utterly alien.

A place that felt like nowhere and everywhere at once.

"Me?" His voice echoed through the open air, and I whipped around to face him.

But the shadowy figure was gone. In his place stood Mr. Thomas, his warm, fatherly smile plastered on his face, but there was something off—something twisted behind those kind eyes.

"I'm just a nothing," he said, his tone so casual it made my stomach turn. "But at the same time, I am everything."

With a slow, deliberate stride, he moved forward, and the grassland shimmered, flickering like a faulty projector.

I blinked, and suddenly we were somewhere else—a place I didn’t recognize but felt disturbingly familiar, like a memory on the edge of my consciousness.

“What the hell is happening?” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

My voice trembled with the weight of everything I couldn’t understand.

"Everyone in this world fear me yet they are doomed to face me."

He took another step, and Mr. Thomas was gone.

In his place stood one of my colleagues, someone I had shared countless coffee breaks and mundane conversations with, now twisted into this bizarre nightmare.

"Stop this nonsense!" I roared, my anger bubbling over into desperation. "Tell me why this is happening to me!"

The figure’s smile widened, cold and knowing.

"Your question is wrong," he said calmly, as if he were a teacher correcting a child.

With another step, the world twisted again, and I found myself sitting on a familiar sofa—the one in my living room, where I had spent countless evenings with Sarah and Chloe.

My heart ached, the memory of those moments almost too painful to bear.

But this wasn’t my living room.

It was a distorted version of it, a place where reality and nightmare bled into one another.

"When do you think it all started?" The figure asked, his voice morphing again.

I looked up, and now he was someone else—another familiar face, twisted by this maddening game.

"Do you truly think it all started when you lost your wife and daughter?" His voice, now Sarah’s, pierced through me like a knife.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

My mind was spiraling, desperately trying to make sense of it all.

He—or she, now—took another step forward.

Sarah’s face, but not her.

Her eyes were too empty, her smile too cold.

"Have you ever wondered if you’ve always been in a loop? If this hell didn’t start with their deaths but long before?"

The surroundings shifted once more, and I was back on that familiar sofa.

But now, standing before me, was Chloe.

My heart shattered at the sight of her innocent face, her wide eyes looking up at me with a strange, unsettling knowingness.

The figure’s voice cut through my thoughts, chilling me to the core.

"If you're in a loop, how can you tell what's real and what's not?"

His words echoed in my mind, a question that felt like it was unraveling the very fabric of my sanity.

Before I could even begin to process, he pressed on.

"So tell me, why do you think I can't be Steve?"

A sudden wave of dizziness hit me.

My mind felt like it was being squeezed, the pressure building until it was almost unbearable.

The world around me began to warp and blur, reality slipping away like sand through my fingers.

"You asked who I am, right?" The voice was closer now, almost whispering in my ear.

I blinked, trying to focus, and when I looked up, my heart nearly stopped.

The shadowy figure was gone, replaced by someone I recognized all too well.

Me.

"I am you," he said, his voice eerily calm, as if he were stating the simplest fact in the world.

I stared at him—at myself—in stunned silence, unable to form words as he continued, "And I am also your nightmare."

A crushing weight pressed down on me, my limbs growing heavy as if I were being pulled into the earth itself.

My eyes drooped, and I fought to keep them open, but it was a losing battle.

The figure—myself—watched me with a knowing smile, his words echoing in my mind as darkness crept in from the edges of my vision.

"You should go to sleep now," he said softly, almost like a lullaby.

I tried to resist, but the darkness was relentless, consuming everything until all that remained were his final words, lingering in the air like a curse.

"Sweet dreams, my friend."

The world faded, and I was lost to the blackness.

---

Suddenly, I jolted awake, the sound of an engine rumbling beneath me.

Disoriented, I blinked against the harsh daylight streaming through the car window.

"Hey lad! Wake up." The voice of a middle aged man, familiar yet distant, broke through my daze.

I turned to see him looking at me with concern, his weathered face creased with a kind smile.

"Wake up, Michael."

Beside him, an middle aged woman leaned over, her gentle voice joining in.

They are my neighbors, Mr and Mrs Thomas.

After my parents accident few years ago, they are the ones raising me up.

I rubbed my eyes, the remnants of sleep clinging to me like cobwebs.

"What happened?" I muttered, trying to shake off the fog in my mind.

"You were having a nightmare," Mr Thomas said, his voice tinged with a hint of worry. "A long one, by the looks of it."

I nodded slowly, the remnants of the dream—or was it something more?—still clinging to my thoughts like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

"Yeah, it felt like… like I was trapped in it forever."

Mrs Thomas reached out, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"It’s okay, now. You're safe."

I tried to smile, but something inside me felt off.

As I looked out the car window, I saw a large building looming ahead—a school, bustling with activity as students streamed inside.

The sight stirred something deep within me, an unsettling feeling that I couldn’t quite place.

"Hmm... Anyways, today is your first day of high school. Are you ready?" Mr Thomas asked, his tone shifting to one of encouragement.

I forced a smile, pushing the strange feeling aside. "Yeah. I’m ready."

"That’s the spirit," Mrs Thomas said, her eyes warm and reassuring. "Good luck, Michael."

"Thanks," I replied, opening the car door and stepping out.

The air was crisp and filled with the sounds of laughter and chatter from other students.

I looked back at the couple, their faces filled with pride and love, and waved before turning toward the school.

As I walked, that strange feeling gnawed at me, a sense that something was missing—something important.

I stopped for a moment, my gaze drifting back to the car as it pulled away.

What was I forgetting?

The thought lingered, heavy in my chest, but as I took a deep breath, I pushed it aside.

It was my first day of high school, and I was excited—or at least I tried to be.