The morning sun crept through the thin curtains of Haruki Tanaka's room, casting fragmented light onto the cluttered desk by the window. A faint breeze carried the sound of cicadas through the open window, mingling with the distant clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen. Haruki groaned, shielding his eyes with an arm.

He glanced at the clock on his bedside table: 6:47 a.m. The same time it always was when he woke up.

“Haruki, breakfast is ready!” his mother called from downstairs. Her voice was familiar, comforting, and yet somehow already fading into the background of his routine.

Haruki rubbed the sleep from his eyes, threw on his school uniform, and grabbed his bag from the chair. The strap was frayed from years of use, a detail he noticed but never felt compelled to fix. He caught his reflection in the mirror as he adjusted his tie—dark, unkempt hair, a pair of tired eyes, and an expression caught somewhere between boredom and indifference.

The morning played out like clockwork. His mother had set the table with miso soup, rice, and grilled fish. “You shouldn’t skip breakfast,” she said, but Haruki had already wolfed down a few bites and was slipping on his shoes at the door.

On the way to school, Haruki noticed the same sights he saw every day: the elderly shopkeeper sweeping the front of his store, a cat perched lazily on a fence, and the bright-red vending machine humming faintly by the corner. The cicadas were louder than usual, a persistent backdrop to the summer heat.

At the crosswalk, he waited beside a few classmates he vaguely recognized but never talked to. A delivery truck rattled past, its horn blaring as it narrowly avoided a biker who swerved out of the way just in time. Haruki barely reacted, muttering, “Close call,” before continuing on his way.

At school, the routine unfolded predictably. Homeroom began with their teacher, Mr. Saito, droning on about upcoming exams. Haruki sat at his desk in the middle row, doodling aimlessly in his sketchbook. Around him, his classmates chatted quietly, their voices blending into a low hum.

“Hey, Haruki.”

He looked up to see Akiko standing by his desk, her usual bright smile in place. She wore her uniform with a casual looseness that somehow suited her outgoing personality. Her short, auburn hair framed her face as she tilted her head.

“Do you have the notes from yesterday? I kind of… forgot to take them.”

Haruki hesitated. Akiko was friendly with everyone, but they rarely spoke directly. He nodded, flipping open his notebook and sliding it toward her. She gave him a quick “Thanks!” and returned to her seat by the window.

Lunch was uneventful, save for the commotion in the cafeteria. A loud crash drew everyone's attention as Kenta Moriyama, the clumsy third-year, spilled an entire tray of curry onto the floor. Laughter erupted, but Kenta only scratched the back of his head sheepishly, muttering, “My bad.”

Haruki finished his bento in silence, occasionally glancing at Mei, who was chatting animatedly with her friends.

After school, Haruki walked home alone, the setting sun casting long shadows on the pavement. As he passed the local park, he noticed a group of kids flying a bright blue kite. It twisted and turned in the wind before snapping free of its string and spiraling into the distance.

For some reason, the sight lingered in his mind.

That night, Haruki sat at his desk, sketching absentmindedly. The lines of his pencil curved into something abstract, a mess of shapes that vaguely resembled the kite he’d seen earlier. The house was quiet except for the faint murmur of the TV from the living room.

He yawned, glancing at the clock. 11:57 p.m. He closed his sketchbook and turned off the light.

As he drifted off to sleep, a strange thought crossed his mind—what if tomorrow wasn’t tomorrow? What if it was just… today, again?

He dismissed it as a passing whim. After all, every day was just like the last.

Little did he know, this would be the first of many tomorrows that never came.

Haruki woke up to the sound of his alarm clock blaring at 6:47 a.m., the numbers glowing faintly in the dim light of his room. He groaned, slapping the snooze button harder than necessary. The faint sound of cicadas outside filled the air, mingling with the familiar clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen.

“Haruki, breakfast is ready!” his mother called, her voice identical to how it always sounded.

He blinked groggily. Something felt… off. But he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Shrugging it off as leftover fatigue, Haruki went through the motions of his morning routine. He threw on his school uniform, grabbed his bag, and headed downstairs.

The day played out like a well-rehearsed performance. Breakfast was miso soup, rice, and grilled fish—exactly the same as yesterday. His mother’s usual admonition to "not skip breakfast" floated over him as he slipped on his shoes and stepped outside.

On his walk to school, Haruki began to notice the strangest sense of déjà vu. The elderly shopkeeper sweeping the front of his store, the lazy cat perched on the fence, the bright-red vending machine humming faintly—they were all there, exactly as they had been the day before.

At the crosswalk, he paused.

A delivery truck rattled past, its horn blaring as it narrowly missed the same biker who swerved out of the way just in time. Haruki froze. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the scene.

“Didn’t this… already happen?” he muttered to himself.

But there was no time to dwell on the thought. The light changed, and the crowd of students behind him pushed forward. Haruki shook his head and continued walking, chalking it up to an overactive imagination.

At school, things only got stranger. Homeroom began with Mr. Saito droning on about the upcoming exams—word for word, the exact same announcements as yesterday. Haruki found himself finishing the teacher’s sentences in his head, like he already knew what was coming next.

And then there was the cafeteria incident.

During lunch, the loud crash rang out once again, and Haruki turned his head instinctively to see Kenta Moriyama sprawled on the floor, his tray of curry scattered across the tiles.

“No way,” Haruki whispered.

The laughter, the murmurs, even Kenta’s sheepish apology—“My bad”—were identical to yesterday. Haruki’s stomach churned. He stared down at his half-finished bento, trying to make sense of it all.

After school, Haruki decided to test his memory. He stood at the school gate, waiting. The sun was beginning to set, casting the streets in a warm orange glow.

It happened just as he remembered. A group of kids ran by, laughing and shouting as they flew their bright blue kite. Haruki’s breath caught as he watched the string snap, sending the kite spiraling into the sky.

“This isn’t normal,” he muttered. “This… this can’t be real.”

He walked home in a daze, the world around him feeling like a faded photograph—familiar, yet distant.

That night, Haruki sat at his desk, staring at his sketchbook. The pages were filled with random shapes and lines, none of them meaningful. He tapped his pencil against the desk, the rhythmic sound grounding him.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“What’s going on?” he whispered to himself. “Am I losing it?”

Glancing at the clock, he noticed the time: 11:57 p.m.

He stood abruptly, pacing the small room. The same events, the same moments—they had all repeated, down to the tiniest detail.

“Maybe I’m just tired,” Haruki said, though he didn’t believe it.

He climbed into bed, the unease in his chest refusing to fade. As he closed his eyes, a strange thought crossed his mind:

What if tomorrow wasn’t tomorrow?

Haruki woke up to the sound of his alarm clock blaring at 6:47 a.m. The numbers glowed faintly in the dim light of his room. He groaned, slapping the snooze button harder than necessary.

The faint sound of cicadas filled the air, mingling with the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen.

“Haruki, breakfast is ready!” his mother called from downstairs, her voice identical to how it always sounded.

Haruki froze, the color draining from his face.

“No,” he whispered.

But as he sat up, the world continued as if nothing was wrong.

Haruki’s day began again at 6:47 a.m., the alarm clock’s relentless beeping pulling him from restless sleep. He stared at the ceiling, his heart heavy with the growing weight of the inexplicable. The cicadas buzzed, the kitchen clattered, and his mother’s cheerful call echoed downstairs.

“Haruki, breakfast is ready!”

But he didn’t move this time. Instead, he stayed in bed, letting the clock tick forward. He wanted to see what would happen if he broke the routine.

By the time he left his room, his mother was already tidying up. “You’re late today,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” Haruki muttered, grabbing his bag without eating and heading out the door.

The familiar sights on the way to school were all the same: the elderly shopkeeper, the lazy cat, the vending machine glowing faintly. Haruki didn’t stop at the crosswalk this time. Instead, he turned left, taking the longer path to school.

The streets were quieter here, and for a moment, he thought he’d succeeded in breaking the cycle. But just as he reached the school gates, he heard it—the screech of brakes, the blaring horn, and the swerving biker narrowly avoiding the delivery truck.

“No way,” Haruki muttered, gripping the straps of his bag tighter.

At school, Haruki made another deliberate choice. He skipped homeroom entirely, hiding out in the art room where the faint smell of paint and turpentine lingered.

But even here, the unease followed him. Every detail, every sound, every tick of the clock felt suffocatingly familiar.

And then, during lunch, it happened again.

Turning a corner in the hallway, Haruki collided with someone hard enough to knock the wind out of him. His bag slipped to the ground, and his heart skipped a beat as he looked up.

It was Mei Aihara.

“Again?” Haruki muttered under his breath.

“Haruki?” Mei said, her voice filled with equal parts surprise and unease. Her grip on her bag was so tight her knuckles were white.

They stared at each other for a moment, tension thick in the air.

“Are you… okay?” Mei asked, her usual bright smile noticeably absent.

Haruki searched her face. She looked shaken, her usual confidence stripped away. Something about her expression struck a chord in him.

“Yeah,” Haruki said cautiously. “You?”

Mei hesitated, then nodded quickly. “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

Haruki didn’t believe her for a second.

As they walked toward the courtyard, the silence between them grew unbearable. Haruki opened his mouth, hesitated, then decided to take a risk.

“Have you noticed anything weird today?” he asked, his voice low.

Mei stopped walking. She turned to face him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Weird?”

Haruki shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Like… stuff happening the same way over and over again.”

Mei’s expression faltered for a split second, and Haruki caught it. She was hiding something.

“Not really,” Mei said quickly, her voice unnaturally high.

Haruki stared at her. “You’re lying.”

Mei’s face flushed. “What? I’m not lying! I just—” She stopped, her hands gripping the straps of her bag tightly. “Why do you ask?”

Haruki’s heart raced. “Because…” He trailed off, unsure how to phrase it.

“You first,” Mei said suddenly. Her voice was quieter now, almost a whisper. “You tell me what’s going on.”

Haruki hesitated. “Fine, but only if you promise to answer honestly.”

Mei frowned but nodded. “Deal.”

They stood in the shadow of the school building, both visibly nervous. Haruki took a deep breath, steeling himself.

“Have you ever felt like… today isn’t real?”

Mei’s eyes widened, and she looked away, biting her lip. “What do you mean by ‘not real’?”

“You know what I mean,” Haruki pressed, his voice firmer now. “Like everything’s repeating. Like you’re stuck in a… time loop.”

Mei froze, her breath hitching. Haruki’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched her. He could see the fear in her eyes, the way her body tensed.

“You too?” she whispered.

Haruki blinked. “Wait, you—”

“Say it,” Mei interrupted.

“What?”

“Say it. Say what’s been happening to you.”

Haruki’s mouth went dry. “I think I’m stuck in a time loop,” he said, the words barely audible.

Mei inhaled sharply, her eyes locking with his. “Same,” she said, her voice trembling.

They stood there in stunned silence, the weight of their shared revelation pressing down on them.

“When did it start for you?” Haruki asked, breaking the silence.

Mei hesitated. “Three days ago,” she said. “You?”

Haruki’s chest tightened. “Three days ago.”

Mei’s eyes widened. “The same day?”

Haruki nodded slowly. “What’s the last thing you remember before it started?”

Mei frowned, thinking. “I… I was sitting in class, and then—” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I just woke up, and it was the same day again.”

Haruki’s thoughts raced. “It’s not just me,” he muttered. “You’re stuck too.”

Mei looked at him, her fear replaced with determination. “We need to figure this out,” she said. “Together.”

Haruki didn’t know why, but for the first time since the loop began, he felt a flicker of hope.

The revelation hung between Haruki and Mei like an unspoken promise, the weight of it growing heavier with each passing moment. They stared at each other, neither sure what to say next.

“So,” Haruki began, his voice breaking the tense silence, “we both started looping… three days ago?”

Mei nodded slowly, her fingers gripping the straps of her bag. “Yeah. Three days ago. Same day. Same time.”

“Same time?” Haruki repeated, his brow furrowing.

“Yeah,” Mei confirmed. “At exactly 11:59 p.m. I remember because… because I was staring at my alarm clock, dreading the next day.” She gave a hollow laugh, glancing away. “Guess I got what I wished for—no tomorrow.”

Haruki didn’t laugh. He felt a chill crawl up his spine as he thought back to his own experience. He had been sketching at his desk when the clock struck 11:59. The next thing he knew, it was morning, and the same day had started all over again.

“Weird,” Haruki muttered.

“What is?” Mei asked, her tone guarded.

“That it started at the exact same time for both of us,” Haruki said. “It’s like… it’s not a coincidence. It can’t be.”

Mei’s eyes darted toward him. “You think it’s connected? That we’re connected?”

The question lingered, and Haruki struggled to find an answer.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, shaking his head. “But it’s not random. There has to be a reason.”

Mei leaned against the wall, her gaze distant. “I’ve tried everything, you know. Breaking stuff, running away, even staying up all night. Nothing works. No matter what I do, the clock hits 11:59, and—poof—it’s like none of it ever happened.”

Haruki crossed his arms, his mind racing. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that too. It’s like… the universe hits a reset button. But it’s more than that. Certain things don’t change, like…” He trailed off, hesitant.

“Like what?” Mei pressed.

“Like memories,” Haruki said finally. “I still remember everything from the previous loops. And objects too. My sketchbook—it keeps the drawings I make, even after the day resets.”

Mei blinked, her expression shifting. “Wait… you’re right. My bracelet.” She held up her wrist, revealing a simple silver chain with a tiny charm dangling from it. “I broke this yesterday. Snapped it clean in half. But when the loop restarted, it was still whole. It’s like…”

“Things tied to us don’t reset completely,” Haruki finished for her.

Mei nodded, her eyes narrowing as she processed this new information.

Haruki exhaled, leaning against the wall beside her. “Okay, let’s think this through. We both started looping at the same time, and we both remember what happens each day. There’s got to be some kind of connection.”

Mei tilted her head, a flicker of something unreadable in her expression. “But what’s the connection? We don’t even hang out. We’re just classmates.”

Haruki hesitated, her words striking an odd chord within him. It was true—they weren’t close. Mei was outgoing and popular, always surrounded by friends, while Haruki preferred the quiet solitude of his sketchbook. Their paths rarely crossed, yet here they were, inexplicably tied to the same strange phenomenon.

“You’re right,” Haruki said slowly. “We don’t have much in common. So why us?”

Mei shrugged helplessly. “Your guess is as good as mine. But maybe… maybe it’s not about who we are.”

Haruki frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s about what we haven’t done,” Mei said, her voice quieter now. “Something we were supposed to do, but didn’t.”

The thought unsettled Haruki. It made sense in a way, though he hated to admit it.

For the rest of the day, they stuck close, trying to figure out the loop’s mechanics. They tested small things—deliberately changing events to see what stuck.

Haruki tripped over his own feet to block Kenta’s infamous curry spill, only for the tray to slip from his hands anyway. Mei tried skipping a class entirely, but nothing major seemed to shift.

“It’s like certain events are locked in place,” Haruki said later as they sat together on a bench in the courtyard.

“Yeah,” Mei agreed, her voice tinged with frustration. “No matter what we do, some things just… have to happen. Like that stupid truck almost hitting the biker. It’s like the loop forces those things to stay the same.”

“Which means,” Haruki said, “we need to focus on the things that can change.”

Mei tilted her head toward him, her expression softer now. “Like us.”

Haruki didn’t reply.

That night, Haruki sat in his room, staring at the clock. It was 11:58 p.m. Mei’s words echoed in his mind: “Maybe it’s not about who we are. Maybe it’s about what we haven’t done.”

But what could they possibly be missing?

He thought about Mei’s fear, the way her usual cheer had crumbled under the weight of the loop. He thought about his own unease, the growing sense that this wasn’t just about surviving the same day over and over.

The clock struck 11:59 p.m., and Haruki felt a strange calm settle over him.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered to himself, “I’ll figure it out.”

Haruki woke up to the sound of his alarm clock blaring at 6:47 a.m.

The day began again.