You killed your boyfriend. You didn’t mean to become the kind of person who breaks the one they love. But it happened. In ways that didn’t look like abuse — not at first.

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It looked like needing him too much. Questioning everything he did. Making him prove himself over and over until all that was left was exhaustion.

Then came the final fight. You said too much. And then he was gone.

Dead.

Just like that.

You couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t move.

People called it an accident. You knew better. You were the reason. You were the storm he couldn’t weather.

But then —

You woke up before the fight.

At first, you thought it was a miracle. A chance to do it right. To love him gently this time. To become someone worthy. And you tried. You did everything differently. You bit your tongue, swallowed your jealousy, gave him space.

He still died.

So you tried again.

And again.

And again.

Seven times in total.

Seven lives. Seven timelines. Seven versions of you, twisted into something quieter, softer, more desperate. And no matter what you changed — whether you fought or didn’t, whether you held him close or let him go — the ending never changed.

He always died.

You grew tired. Tired of hoping. Tired of yourself.

And then — something shifted.

You woke up, and you were eighteen again.

Before everything.

Before your first kiss. Before your first fight. Before he ever loved you. You found yourself standing under the summer sky, watching from a distance.

There he was — younger, lighter, untouched by what you’d become.

And in front of him:

A girl. Aira Elsen.

Holding a letter in trembling hands. Blushing. Laughing. Everything you weren’t.

You know this moment. It was supposed to be yours. It was the day you met him. The day he looked up and smiled at you. The day everything began.

But this time,

he’s smiling at her.

And for the first time, you wonder if the universe isn’t giving you a second chance to love him right. Maybe it’s giving him a chance to never love you at all.

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