Chapter 8: The Final Test

As my weaknesses were gradually filled, the time I spent looping grew shorter and shorter.

I learned to spot the gaps in my knowledge, hunting them down one by one. Each loop became a little shorter, a little easier.

After 2,324 days, I finally reached graduation and the SATs.

Over six years, if you count every loop. Most of my classmates were getting ready to leave for college—I felt like I’d already lived a lifetime here.

At that moment, I seemed to understand the purpose behind the loop’s strict requirements for each test.

Maybe the loop was some kind of teacher, harsher than any I’d met. Or maybe it was just a cruel joke—no way to know for sure.

Sitting in the exam room, looking at the questions that once gave me headaches, a strange feeling washed over me—relaxation, even boredom.

The pressure was gone. For once, I looked around at the anxious faces of my classmates and didn’t envy them at all.

The knowledge I had explored, studied, and memorized countless times seemed engraved into my mind, becoming instinct. Answering required no thought at all—it was like mechanically copying words onto the paper.

My hand moved on autopilot. I was almost detached, as if watching someone else fill out the bubbles.

I even felt that, this time, I wouldn’t need to loop again.

Something in my chest loosened—a hope I hadn’t dared to feel in years.

And I was right. After the SATs ended, I wasn’t pulled back to a week before.

Relief crashed over me. I could almost laugh—if only anyone else knew what this really meant.

This was the only test I passed on my own, without relying on time travel.

I stood up from my desk, blinking in the harsh gym lights. It was over.

On the day the results were announced, I didn’t check my score excitedly like the others. After all, I already knew what it would be.

My phone buzzed with texts from classmates—screenshots of acceptance letters, memes about waiting for results. I just scrolled, numb.

As expected, my score was placed in a confidential file—this level of achievement couldn’t be looked up online.

Rumor was, a score this high would get flagged, put in some administrator’s drawer instead of the school website. I pretended not to care.

My parents were overjoyed, proudly showing off my supposed genius to all our relatives and friends. I played along, displaying just the right amount of surprise.

Mom made a Facebook post with a photo of my old soccer trophies, captioned “Our boy did it!” Dad called up old college buddies he hadn’t spoken to in years. I smiled at the right times, posed for pictures, kept my real thoughts buried.

After decades of looping, I had mastered the art of acting. The outside world couldn’t solve my problem; letting anyone notice anything unusual would only bring more trouble. I could only hide my exhaustion and weariness behind the facade of a normal student.

I kept my answers short at family dinners, dodged questions with practiced ease. I learned to mimic joy, even as I felt nothing but emptiness inside.

But while everyone else was still celebrating this miracle, my heart was as calm as still water. Through countless loops, my drive and innocence had long since worn away.

Their voices blurred together, a chorus of congratulations that didn’t feel like it belonged to me. I wondered if they’d still clap if they knew how many times I’d failed before getting it right.

The more people cheered, the more distant I felt. I watched them as if through glass—happy for me, but totally unaware of what I’d lost.

Reporters’ interviews, the fierce competition between Harvard and MIT’s admissions teams, waves of rarely seen relatives visiting one after another... None of it interested me in the slightest.

One day, a news van showed up outside the house, but I just stayed in my room. Dad handled the press with a proud grin. I didn’t bother to listen.

Everyone seemed thrilled for my brilliant future, as if I were the embodiment of this victory. But only I knew that all of it was just the result of endless repetition.

I was a mannequin in a parade, waving while someone else pulled the strings.

What truly troubled me was the next choice.

The time loop hadn’t ended.

My gut twisted. Was this all there was? Had I missed something, or was I about to start over from scratch?

When I opened my laptop to fill out my college application, a sense of unease crept over me. My fears were soon confirmed—every time I chose the wrong major, the time loop would send me back to the moment I opened the application page.

My cursor hovered over Computer Science, then Engineering, then Psychology. Each time I clicked “submit,” the screen dissolved into static, the world lurching sideways—then I was back at the login screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

The first time, I chose Computer Science. Before the words "Submission Successful" even appeared, my vision spun.

A sharp, nauseating tug. I clutched the desk, gasping, and found myself right back at the start. The loop had moved its goalposts.

When I came to, time had returned to the moment I opened the webpage.

My hands shook. I stared at the blinking cursor, panic starting to bubble up.

Subsequent attempts were the same: Finance, Pre-Law, Philosophy, Pre-Med... Every major I could think of was rejected by the loop.

I typed faster, desperate. Each time, the same result: nothing stuck, nothing worked.

Clearly, the time loop had a will of its own. It seemed to be guiding me toward a specific direction.

Maybe this was some cosmic joke, or maybe there was something bigger at work. I had no way of knowing, only that I wasn’t in control.

What exactly did it want?

I racked my brain for clues, reviewing every memory, every lesson. I even started reading up on weird theories about fate and destiny on Reddit late at night.

I kept trying and failing, testing every possibility. Each time I clicked the mouse, I held onto a bit of hope—only to be sent back to the starting point again and again.

It was torture—hope and despair on a loop, each cycle a little more draining than the last.

During that period, I spent nearly every day caught between filling out the application and looping, until I was completely drained.

I stopped eating. I barely slept. My parents thought I was just anxious about college, but I was unraveling by the hour.

Finally, when I clicked on Aerospace Engineering, the screen displayed a big "Application Successful."

It was almost anticlimactic—the cursor spun, then a cheerful green checkmark. No dizziness, no darkness. Just... normal.

No abnormalities at all.

For the first time in weeks, I exhaled, long and shaky.

This time, the time loop didn’t interfere.

I stared at the confirmation page, my hands frozen on the keyboard. Was this what the loop had wanted all along?

I was stunned.

But if the universe wanted me on this path, I’d have to find out why. Even if it killed me—again.

Why did the time loop want me to choose this major?

Was it fate? A cosmic nudge toward something bigger than myself? Or was I just another test subject, shuffled along by forces I’d never understand?

Is my mission to lead humanity to Mars?

I pictured myself in a NASA jumpsuit, helmet under one arm, staring up at a red, distant sky. It sounded ridiculous—like something out of a sci-fi movie. But after everything I’d been through, was anything impossible?

Or is this all just some random choice?

Maybe it was meaningless, a coincidence disguised as destiny. I might never know. But for the first time in years, the future felt open again—a blank page, waiting to be written.