Page 89 of Kiss Slay Replay

That whizzing sound again.

Warmth. Darkness.

Nothing.

1

I wake up, open a single eyelid to check that I am where I think I am. In my bed. In my studio. Sun beaming through the windows. It stings. Too bright.

I should be grateful that I’m still breathing, but all I feel is this overwhelming, otherworldly grumpiness.

“Nnnnnnnnope,” I mumble, pulling the sheets over my aching head. “No thanks. Hard pass.”

I’m caught in an inexplicable time loop of horrors. Why get out of bed? Confront this day again? I shut my eyes tight, shimmy deeper under the covers. But there behind my eyelids—Ravi dead in front of me.

It was too much, watching him die like that. Too much.

Archimedes grunts. He’ll start whining for breakfast soon.

“Fine.” I get up and feed Archie, take some Advil, order DoorDash McDonald’s, make coffee and spike it with whiskey. I abandon the deck I need to finish for work even though I’ve already done it multiple times, instead opting to stare at the wall while trying not to think about zombies and death and my bitter ex and our wedding that never happened and the wedding that’s happening later that I will most certainly die horrifically at, likely after having to suffer through the ceremony for a fourth time.

My food arrives. Sausage and egg McMuffin. Steak and cheese on a biscuit. Bacon, egg, and cheese McGriddle. Hash browns. Vanilla milkshake. Apple pies. I take it all into bed with me. If the grease stains my sheets, so what? Either I wake up today again with clean sheets or I wake up tomorrow with greasy sheets having broken the loop by not going to the wedding.

Because I don’t think I’m going.

No. I’m not.

I’m not going to the wedding.

This decision will eviscerate my friendships, cause irreparable damage. Potential permanent alienation. They’ll be so angry at me. I could claim to be sick—food poisoning, fever, the flu, etc.—but there’s no way they’ll believe me, considering the circumstances. They’ll know I’m lying; assume I’m avoiding a reunion with Ravi or surrendering to depression. Assume selfishness. I couldn’t prove them wrong, can’t explain how I think there’s a good chance my absence might save their lives. That there’s something cosmically amiss, and whatever it is, it’s seemingly tied to me, since I’m the only one aware that it’s even happening. They won’t understand. They can’t.

I gulp my whiskey-laced coffee and Google “what to do if you’re stuck in a time loop.”

The AI overview states that according to fictional scenarios, I need to “identify the trigger causing the loop and actively change my behavior within that day to break free.” It suggests I do something drastically different.

Staying home seems drastically different. I nibble my McBreakfast.

Google goes on to say that time loops aren’t real and suggests that I should just switch up my routine to put an end to any feelings of repetitiveness or sense of being trapped. Then it goes into a bulleted list of things to consider in a fictional time loop, like analyzing my surroundings, observing behaviors, seeking knowledge, and being thoughtful about potential effects or outcomes. Admittedly, the latter isn’t exactly my strong suit.

The list wraps up by again pointing out that time loops are a fictional concept and gently advises to seek help if needed.

“I am seeking help, Google,” I shout at my laptop screen. “You’re the help!”

I turn to Reddit, which is dire. The top post starts off with “don’t panic.”

“Yeah, of course. Great advice.”

I scroll down a random thread. People love to speculate about all the crazy shit they would do if they lived in a world without consequence. Must be nice to a) not have a modicum of shame or anxiety, and b) remain blissfully oblivious that every action within the loop does have consequences, as I’ve come to learn. The Ravi out there existing right now doesn’t know that we confronted each other, started hashing things out, but I do. And Cass, she’s probably at her kitchen counter quietly resenting me for being needy, wishing I’d just figure my shit out and give her space, not knowing that I know exactly how she feels and that my own resentments are percolating as a result.

And Danny. All the promise of our first meeting has been forever tarnished by the knowledge that he’s an epic fuckboy. He gave me a taste of what it might feel like to move on, to get the attention I’m starving for post-breakup, and then promptly proved to be a disappointment. Maybe in some universe he would take me to Tokyo for sushi, fly me halfway around the world, and we’d wander the streets of the city hand in hand, mess up a hotel bed, live in a fantasy. But in that universe, and I’m guessing every universe, he’d leave before fantasy gave way to reality.

I’m not sure I can blame him. Reality sucks.

I knock back the rest of my whiskey coffee and chase it with a hash brown shoved all the way into my mouth. Good for me. I’m drunk before noon, and I plan to keep drinking until I’m on another planet.

I draft an unhinged text to Cassie telling her I have a stomach virus and won’t make it to the wedding. That it’s not about Ravi or because I’m too sad and I really wanted to be there and I’m sorry. I read and reread it. I edit. Delete. Rewrite. I hit send before I lose my nerve, then immediately turn off my phone.

What if I’m wrong about the loop being connected to me, to my presence at the wedding? What if I don’t go, and we all die anyway? Or what if they all die, and I survive? What if the loop only resets if I’m there?