Chapter 5: Rituals and Routines

[The time loop is usually triggered during stage tests, like monthly quizzes.]

[The only way to escape the time loop is to fully master all the material covered in the test.]

[You must truly master the knowledge; shortcuts or tricks can’t fool the loop.]

I wrote these three sentences at the front of my spiral notebook.

The paper was already worn thin, the ink fading. I stared at my handwriting, tracing the letters like a talisman against madness.

Even though I knew them by heart, writing them down was my ritual. In this endless cage of loops, I needed rituals to keep myself sane.

It’s a weird comfort—like tying your shoes the same way every morning, or always knocking twice on the fridge before grabbing milk. In a world where everything resets, rituals are the only anchor I’ve got.

Without these rituals, I might have lost my mind long ago.

Maybe I already had. But as long as I could still write those rules, I could pretend I was in control.

There were 98 days left until graduation and the SATs.

A little over three months. My phone calendar, which used to be jammed with deadlines and reminders, now marked days like a prison wall—98 left to go.

The material was getting harder. In middle school, maybe after one or two loops I could master the test content. But in high school, things were different.

AP classes, college prep, mountains of homework. Even with a week’s head start, some problems felt like ancient ciphers. My brain throbbed just looking at them.

My weaknesses became more obvious—especially in math and physics. Some concepts just wouldn’t stick, no matter how many loops I did.

Numbers blurred together. I spent nights hunched over my calculator, wishing I could brute-force my way through theorems and formulas. Sometimes, the answers felt just out of reach.

For this monthly test, I’ve already looped for 443 days.

443 mornings of the same walk down Maple Avenue, the same stale cafeteria bagels, the same awkward hellos in the hallway. Every routine mapped out like a movie I couldn’t stop watching.

After 443 loops, I know these seven days like the back of my hand. In two seconds, a mourning dove will hit the classroom window, drawing Mr. Thompson’s attention. Then a paper ball will fly at me, containing a love note. If I took the bait, I’d be stuck in a three-day rom-com subplot with a script I could recite in my sleep.

Sometimes I count the footsteps before the dove hits, or time the note as it slides off my desk. My classmates’ lives play out like a Netflix miniseries I’ve binged a hundred times, every choice branching into the same worn-out outcomes.

I’ve already experienced these storylines countless times, so—

I thought:

A dove struck the window with a soft thud. Mr. Thompson instinctively turned his head. At the same time, a paper ball flew toward me. Without moving, I just turned my head for the 411th time, watching it brush past my cheek and land by the trash can.

I heard the flutter of wings, the note skidding across the linoleum. I barely blinked. I could have caught it, or played along, but what was the point? I watched the scene unfold like a bored spectator.

The class president next to me lowered her head, disappointment flickering in her eyes. I caught her disappointment in the corner of my eye, but I couldn’t summon the energy to care—not this time.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her hand trembling just a little. Maybe in another loop, I’d have said something. But today, my thoughts were trapped by another impossible equation.

I kept working on the big calculus problem, laser-focused. I’d tried this kind of problem countless times, but still needed to check the solution over a dozen times before I could really understand it.

My pencil moved in slow, careful lines. The clock ticked. My mind wandered to the strange logic of the loop, wondering why, after all this time, I still couldn’t solve this particular question without a cheat sheet.