"V!!!"
Her scream tore through the air as he glanced back. Her arm was outstretched, fingers straining towards him in a desperate, silent plea to stop. But the momentum was already unstoppable.
The decision was made, a grim resolve settled deep within him. At twenty-three, facing oblivion felt brutally premature, yet he shouldered the blame for everything – the crushing weight of his circumstances, even this final, violent act against himself. The sheer, unbearable pressure of it all had simply shattered his will to endure.
This bleak end wasn't in any plan, wasn't part of any future he'd imagined. He'd just… surrendered. Let go. And jumped. Yet, as the air rushed past, the world distorted. Time itself seemed to thicken and slow. A strange, blinding light enveloped his vision, and within its glare, he saw them – crystalline tears tracing paths down V's horrified face, falling almost as slowly as he was.
A fierce, futile longing surged: If only I could rewind it all. Maybe then he could choose differently, navigate the treacherous paths with better choices, forge a brighter outcome. Would it even matter? The chilling doubt whispered. Would the destination still be this abyss? Probably not. Yet, intertwined with the wish for his own redo was a sharper ache: the wish that she had seen it sooner. Seen how deeply, how desperately, a flawed man like him had cared for her.
Then, the light vanished. Utter, suffocating darkness rushed in, swallowing the sight of her tears, the fading cityscape, the very sense of falling. It consumed everything, sound, sensation, thought – leaving only an infinite, silent void.
---
BREAKING NEWS!!!
"This is shocking news, especially for his devoted fans..." the morning anchor began, her voice tight with disbelief.
"Famed fiction writer Tyrell Vernor," her co-anchor continued, the graphic displaying his author photo – a young man with intense eyes, alongside his aliases 'Knight' and 'Dark' – "known internationally by his pen names, Knight and Dark... has died. Authorities confirm Vernor committed suicide last night by jumping from the observation deck of the Prince-State Building."
The broadcast cut to a live shot of the iconic tower, police tape stark against the dawn light. "Vernor, only twenty-three, was a phenomenon. Achieving bestseller status while fiercely guarding his anonymity until just last year, his work transcended genre. Novels like the critically adored 'Flowers of May' series – that poignant slice-of-life, reflective romance – became cultural touchstones, even finding their way onto university syllabi as required reading. His sudden unmasking followed by this... it's unthinkable."
A graphic flashed listing his works: the unfinished Flowers of May, several standalone novels praised for their raw emotional depth, plus collections of sharp, melancholic essays and introspective poetry that hinted at a troubled inner world. "Fans worldwide," the report emphasized, showing social media feeds exploding with grief icons and quotes from his books, "are utterly devastated. Tributes pouring in not just of losing a brilliant voice, but the crushing realization that the deeply anticipated conclusion to Flowers of May will now forever remain unwritten. The academic world, too, mourns the silencing of such a young, influential literary force whose anonymous beginnings and meteoric rise were already the subject of scholarly analysis."
"Beyond the major novels, it was often in his shorter pieces – those essays dissecting modern isolation, those poems heavy with unspoken longing – that Vernor seemed most personally present. This tragic act casts a chilling new light on all of it. For countless readers who found peace in his words about connection and melancholy, the loss feels personal. The brilliant light of Knight and Dark has gone out far, far too soon."
---
A poor soul, truly.
You carried such crushing weight, suffering in silence where no one could see the fractures spreading beneath the surface. That desperate urge to scream your truth, to let the world know the source of the darkness clinging to you – it was there, a constant pressure. Yet you choked it back, every single time. The fear wasn't for yourself, was it? It was the terrifying certainty that speaking out would paint targets on the backs of innocents, people who never asked to be caught in your storm. Including her. The woman you loved, whose safety became another chain binding your voice.
You bore it all.
And still, you managed to offer the world a smile. A mask worn so often it might have felt real, sometimes. For those who only saw the surface, the charming writer, the thoughtful friend... how profoundly sad the gulf between that image and your reality must have been.
But...
...perhaps the universe isn't entirely without mercy.
...perhaps the weight of your silent suffering was acknowledged.
...perhaps the sheer, undeserved tragedy of it demanded redress.
A second chance.
It feels like a fragile, impossible gift whispered into the void you left behind. Don't waste it. Grasp this unexpected lifeline with both hands. Do better. Find the well-being that eluded you before. Navigate the paths you couldn't see last time.
Good luck. You'll need it. And you deserve it. Truly.
---
Tyrell jolted awake with a strangled gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs like a frantic bird. He sucked in ragged breaths, trying to force calm into his frantic system. Blinking against the dim light, his gaze swept the room. Familiarity slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.
"What the hell?" he rasped, voice thick with sleep and shock. "This is... this is my old room! My crappy student bed, my ancient gaming setup... the whole house?!" He scrambled upright, sheets tangling around his legs. The need to verify this impossible reality was overwhelming.
He practically launched himself towards the window, fingers fumbling with the latch. Throwing it open, he braced for the ruined neighborhood he knew should be there – the one gutted by fire years ago. Instead, morning sunlight washed over rows of intact, slightly shabby houses. Flowering weeds peeked through cracks in the sidewalk, and Mrs. Henderson's obnoxiously pink azalea bush was blooming defiantly next door.
The sight hit him like a bucket of ice water. "No way," he breathed, leaning out further, scanning the street. "This can't be real. Right? I jumped fifty stories. Bones don't survive that. Organs don't survive that. Hallucination? Coma dream? Gotta be." Desperate for a jolt back to 'reality', he gave his own arm a sharp pinch, then a harder slap. The sting was immediate, sharp, and utterly mundane. The blooming neighborhood remained stubbornly, impossibly, present. The sheer, undeniable normalcy of the scene was the most terrifying proof of all.
It wasn't a dream. It was real. He was back.
Tyrell stared at his chunky old phone, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. "Well, it's real alright!" he muttered to the empty room. "Okay, brainiac, now what? Priority one: figure out when I am." He thumbed the power button, the familiar, slightly sluggish startup sequence of his ancient device feeling like a punch of nostalgia.
"Whoa, blast from the past," he grinned, tracing a finger over the scratched plastic casing. "Yeah, you were a real trooper back in the day, buddy." The home screen loaded. His eyes snapped to the date display: March 25, 2016.
"2016," he breathed, the number hanging in the quiet air. "End of fifth grade... Huh." A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, replacing the lingering shock. "Okay. Okay, this isn't terrible. Actually... this is pretty damn good." The sheer potential washed over him. "A whole do-over. Middle school, high school... all the dumb stuff, all the good stuff... but different this time." The weight of his previous ending felt momentarily lighter.
He wandered back to the window, leaning on the sill. Outside, the world looked impossibly ordinary, impossibly safe. He tilted his head back, squinting at the vast, clear sky. A sense of quiet resolve settled within him, firmer than the initial panic. "Alright, universe," he murmured, a spark of determination igniting in his eyes. "If this is the second chance you're throwing my way... I'm grabbing it. No more wasting time. Things are gonna be done right this time." The future, suddenly wide open again, felt less daunting and more like an invitation.