The dull hum of fluorescent lights above my cubicle droned on, blending with the rhythmic clacking of keyboards and the occasional beep from someone's phone. It was just past 11 PM, but the office felt more like a tomb than a workplace. My eyes were heavy, my head throbbed, and every muscle in my body begged me to stop.

“Just a few more slides,” I muttered to myself, ignoring the burn in my wrist as I dragged and dropped another chart into my presentation.

This was my life. A prestigious corporate job in a high-rise building, making money I could hardly enjoy because I was always here—always working. My parents were proud. My boss called me “indispensable.” But somewhere along the way, the dreams I once had slipped through my fingers.

I leaned back, glancing at the only photo on my desk: a picture of Celine and me from our honeymoon in Paris. Her smile was radiant, and I looked so… alive. It was a stark contrast to the pale, gaunt face reflected in my monitor now.

Celine. My wife. My high school sweetheart. She had always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. I could almost hear her voice now: "You need to rest, Erik. You’re pushing yourself too hard."

But I couldn’t stop. The pressure was too much—deadlines, expectations, the nagging guilt of not being enough. Not for her, not for the baby on the way. I clenched my jaw. I had promised to slow down after we found out she was pregnant. Yet here I was, chasing numbers and spreadsheets, while she slept alone at home.

As I reached for my coffee cup, my hand trembled. The cup slipped, its contents spilling across the desk. My vision blurred, and suddenly, the room swayed violently.

“Not now…” I whispered, clutching at my chest. Pain erupted like a storm, sharp and unrelenting. My knees buckled, and I crumpled to the floor.

Panic gripped me, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All I could think about was Celine—her laugh, her touch, the way she always smelled faintly of vanilla. She had begged me to take care of myself, and I hadn’t listened.

I felt cold. My breaths came in shallow gasps as the edges of my vision darkened.

“Please… not like this…” My voice was a weak rasp. Regret flooded through me, more painful than the tightness in my chest. I had wasted so much time. Time I could’ve spent baking croissants, opening the little café I used to dream about, watching Celine’s eyes light up at every new recipe we created together.

Instead, I had given my life to this endless grind. And now, I wouldn’t even get to meet my child.

As the last flicker of light faded, I made a desperate wish. “Just… one more chance…”

---

I woke up with a gasp, my heart racing as if it had just been jump-started.

For a moment, I thought I was in a hospital, but the sunlight streaming through the window was warm and familiar. Slowly, I sat up, blinking in confusion. The bed beneath me creaked, and the smell of old wood and freshly laundered sheets filled my nose.

This was… my old room?

The walls were covered with faded posters of bands I hadn’t listened to in years. My desk was littered with textbooks and empty cans of soda. Even the clock on the nightstand—a cheap plastic thing with a crack on the side—was exactly as I remembered it.

I scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over my own feet as I lunged for the calendar pinned to the wall. My breath caught when I saw the date: September 3rd, 2013.

My hands trembled as I ran them through my hair, which felt shorter than I was used to. I stumbled to the mirror above my dresser, and the face staring back at me made my heart stop.

It was my face—but younger. No dark circles, no stress lines, no gaunt cheeks.

“This isn’t real,” I murmured, gripping the edges of the dresser. My mind raced. Was this a dream? A cruel hallucination?

But everything felt too vivid—the scratchy texture of the dresser’s varnish, the distant sound of Mom cooking breakfast downstairs, the faint scent of Dad’s coffee.

I was seventeen again.

---

The rest of the morning passed in a daze. I went through the motions of breakfast with my family, barely speaking as my parents bickered over something trivial. I studied their faces, marveling at how young they looked, how full of energy.

“Erik, you’re quiet today,” Mom said, glancing at me over her coffee mug. “Are you feeling okay?”

I forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… tired.”

She frowned but didn’t press further. Dad, on the other hand, was already talking about career fairs and college applications, reminding me of the expectations that had once shaped my entire life.

“Don’t forget, the future doesn’t wait for anyone,” he said, patting my shoulder as I left the table.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I had lived that future. And it had killed me.

---

I spent most of the day alone, wandering through the familiar streets of my neighborhood. The world seemed brighter, sharper, more alive than I remembered.

Eventually, I found myself outside the school gates, staring at the building that held so many memories—some good, many painful. I watched students milling about, laughing and chatting as they filed inside.

And then I saw her.

Celine.

She looked exactly as I remembered from high school—bright, confident, effortlessly beautiful. Her long hair caught the sunlight as she stood with a small group of friends, laughing at something someone said.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

In my first life, I had barely known her at this point. She was just a classmate, someone I admired from afar but never had the courage to approach. It wasn’t until years later, when we crossed paths by chance, that she became the center of my world.

But now, I had a second chance. A chance to rewrite everything.

I clenched my fists, my resolve hardening. This time, I wouldn’t let my dreams slip away. This time, I’d make sure she knew how much she meant to me.