NOT A DOORMAT ANYMORE

I'm back to life?

Ava's Pov:

I jolted awake with a gasp that tore from my throat like it had been trapped there for years.

My hands flew to my neck, my chest, checking for blood, for glass, for the cold emptiness of death.

Nothing.

Just the steady thrum of my heartbeat beneath my palm.

I was breathing. I was alive.

The room around me was too bright. It had white walls, white sheets, with the rhythmic beeping of a machine beside me.

This was a hospital.

My mind raced asfragments of memory came crashing into each other. I remembered the glass table, the blood, Vivian's smile, and Ethan walking away with Vivian by her side.

I died. I know I died.

So why was I here?

What's going on here? Am I in the land of the dead? Or what?

I threw the blankets off and stumbled out of bed, my legs shaking beneath me. The floor was cold under my bare feet as I rushed toward the small mirror hanging on the wall.

My reflection stared back at me.

I looked the same. I had the same face, same dark eyes, and same scar on my eyebrow from when I was seven.

But something was different. Something looked different.

My skin was smoother. The exhaustion that had settled into my bones as a result of suffering, it was gone. Even my hair looked healthier, and fuller. I wasn't sick yet. The cancer hasn't started taking over yet.

I looked...younger.

My breath came faster, as panic clawed at my chest.

What is happening to me? What's going on?

A nurse rushed into the room, her eyes wide with concern.

"Miss Arande! You need to get back in bed. You shouldn't be up..."

I didn't listen. I grabbed her by the arm, my fingers digging into her scrubs.

She froze, startled by the intensity in my grip.

I pointed frantically at the calendar on the wall behind her, my other hand moving in desperate signs.

What date is it? What day is it? I signed.

The nurse followed my gaze, confusion flickering across her face.

"It's...it's March 15th," she said slowly. "You came in yesterday evening after a fall. You sprained your ankle. You had a fall. Do you remember?"

March 15th.

The air left my lungs.

No.

That's impossible.

I died around March 16th. Or was I wrong? Did she mean a year ago? More than a year before the glass table. Before I found them together. Before I died.

I shook my head, backing away from the nurse. My hands trembled as I signed again, faster this time.

What year? What year is it?

She looked at me like I'd lost my mind.

Maybe I had.

"It's 2025," she said gently, like she was talking to someone confused. "Miss Arande, are you feeling alright? Did you hit your head when you fell?"

2025.

One year.

I went back one year.

My knees buckled. I gripped the edge of the sink to keep from collapsing.

This isn't real. This can't be real.

But the fluorescent lights were too bright to be a dream. The beeping monitor too steady. The nurse's concerned face too clear.

I was here. I was alive.

I went back.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

The realization hit me like a wave, drowning out every other thought.

I clenched my jaw, my hands balling into fists.

I thought about Ethan, Vivian, the glass table, and the way they looked at me like I was nothing.

It all came rushing back, sharp and vivid, like it had just happened yesterday.

Because to me, it had.

A sound escaped my throat—half laugh, half sob.

The nurse stepped closer. "Miss Arande..."

I held up a hand, stopping her.

I needed a moment. I needed to think.

I turned back to the mirror, staring at my reflection.

My lips parted slightly.

I could feel it. The vibration in my throat. The breath moving past my vocal cords.

I had my voice back.

But I closed my mouth quickly, glancing at the nurse.

She hadn't noticed. She was too busy trying to guide me back to the bed.

No one could know.

Not yet.

I let her lead me back, my mind spinning with possibilities.

If I really went back a year, then I could change everything. I could stop the engagement. I could protect myself. I could make them pay.

But I had to be smart. I had to be careful.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, my hands folded in my lap, my face carefully blank.

The nurse checked my vitals, murmuring something about monitoring me for a concussion.

I nodded absently, my thoughts elsewhere.

Ethan would come. He always did after I got hurt. Not because he cared, but because it was expected. Because it made him look good.

And sure enough, a few minutes later, I heard footsteps in the hallway.

The door opened.