Chapter 2: Eightieth First Monday

It was 5:05 in the morning.

My alarm was supposed to ring in ten minutes, but Reira had always been the one to walk Roku at dawn. And she was gone.

So I had to get up earlier.

I hadn’t set the alarm—no need.

My body woke up on its own, as it always did at this point in the loop.

The first time it happened, it was brutal.

The feeling of an empty bed after so many years together… that silence, that cold space beside me—it shattered me.

And the harsh impact of adjusting to a new routine alone, with tiny details like having to walk Roku before work, had hit me so hard I almost broke down crying.

But that had been a long time ago.

Eighty years ago, to be precise.

So this was the eightieth ‘first time’ I woke up to my routine without Reira.

I didn’t feel anything anymore.

I got dressed quietly, clipped the leash onto Roku’s collar, and stepped outside into the dim early morning. The streets were still half-asleep, painted in that pale blue shade that only existed before sunrise. Roku trotted beside me, his steps steady and predictable—almost comforting.

As we walked, I tried to organize my thoughts. Not that it helped much anymore.

I had gone back in time to repeat everything, one more time.

Again.

And again.

I was exhausted.

Somewhere within the first ten years, the despair became so heavy I actually tried to end it—end myself, end the loop, end the weight of remembering everything while the world stayed perfectly unaware.

But it hadn’t worked.

Death wasn’t an exit.

It simply sent me back to the beginning.

The next twenty or thirty years, I dedicated entirely to searching for a way out.

A clue.

A variable.

A single event that could change the outcome.

There was none.

No matter what I did—no matter how drastically I altered my choices—the loop always ended the same way:

On May 14th, 2020.

That had been my last real day. My final day before eternity.

No action, no decision, no scream, no plea could push me past that point.

By year thirty-something, I gave up on fighting the infinite.

I surrendered to it.

My personality changed.

I had always been cheerful, optimistic, the kind of person who tried to lift others up.

Now I was sharp-edged, cynical, apathetic.

Not that it mattered anymore.

Monday went by quickly.

My job was demanding—so demanding I barely had time to go to the bathroom. But just like I had done the very first time, I told my coworkers I was getting divorced. That always earned me a temporary reduction in responsibilities. Not that I cared much about doing my job or not. I knew every task by heart anyway. I could even choose not to work at all, like I had done in a few loops… but if I had to live through another year, I preferred not to live it miserably.

Less work meant the repetition was slightly more bearable.

Tuesday arrived just as quickly.

The only thing that made that day different was the plan I had: meeting a friend for a few drinks in the evening. Same plan as always. It was the only day of the week he was free.

I knew that if I decided to tell him about the divorce, by the weekend the whole friend group would gather to cheer me up. A few acquaintances would join too, and I’d end up making new connections.

In the last run of the loop, things had gotten weird in the group and we barely met at all.

So after a long time of not seeing them, I actually felt like having a few drinks again. Why not? I’d get a bit drunk, the next Monday would come fast, and the days would blend together like they always did.

So I told my friend about the divorce.

I had lost count of how many times I had explained it to him for the “first time.”

Fewer than eighty… but still far too many.

The weekend arrived, and we met up with the same old friends at the same old bar.

We went out at night to the usual places, I made the same new friends I always made, and I got drunk—really drunk this time.

The first days and weeks of any loop never changed much, no matter how differently I acted. I already knew every conversation by heart. It felt like playing through a videogame over and over again.

“You should get on a dating app!” one of my friends said.

“What?” I paused to think.

“Yeah!” the others agreed enthusiastically. “You’re young, you’ve got money, you’ve got your own place—now’s the time to get all the sex you can!”

Another friend added, “We can help you make your profile.”

All of them were single. I had been the only one in a relationship until now.

They almost seemed… happy about it.

Someone else chimed in, “Plus you’ve got a really cute dog—use him in your pictures! Girls love that.”

Wait a second, I thought. This is weird.

This kind of conversation had never come up with any of them in eighty years.

They always told me to take my time before meeting anyone new. They almost seemed jealous of how well I used to do with women.

In eighty years, I’d had every kind of relationship with every kind of woman. None of them ever lasted, and every loop ended on the same day anyway. But never—not once—had my friends encouraged me to start something new with someone.

I’d always done that on my own.

This was new.

Maybe I was confused. I was extremely drunk and it was late, after all. So I left myself a voice note on my phone to remind me of the whole thing in the morning.

After that, I stopped thinking altogether.

The alcohol, the endless overthinking, the depression, the frustration—they all piled up.

And the last two wires holding my consciousness together finally snapped.