Chapter Text
Day 1
Sylvain reached out a flailing hand to shut off the ringing that had cut through his dream, causing his phone to go flying across the room, still yelling its disapproval.
“Shhh, s’too early, Stevie,” he slurred to his ceiling.
Sleep sand stuck to his eyelashes, tempting him back to the world of dreams, but the noise was unrelenting. So he pulled his comforter around him in a poor imitation of staying in bed as he stumbled himself to his phone.
Cut to silence—whatever that meant in a city that never slept. He squinted at the time; a superfluous act, born of habit. Because his more optimistic self from years ago had set it for ‘an extra two minutes of well-deserved sleep,’ and, while it was now a mockery, he’d still take any extra second he could get. The consequence of living on a rigid timetable.
And at 8:04, there was no time to waste. Yawning, he threw the blanket in a pile back on his bed and dragged himself to a cold shower. Five minutes later he flicked on the kettle, leaving it to boil before standing in front of his display of neatly pressed dress shirts, mundane in their sterile row.
What color today? White? Ivory? Blue?
An illusion of choice. He threw on a maroon one along with a black jacket, silk tie, black slacks. His silver cufflinks shone gaudy in the morning sun as he attached them—a gift from his father on his first day. “We must always look the part of a professional, Sylvain.” They suffocate his wrists.
He enjoyed four and a half minutes of solitude in his top-of-the-line kitchen, clutching his bergamot tea and munching on a granola bar that threatened to crack his teeth. At 8:31, he slipped his feet into unyielding dress shoes, grabbed his briefcase, wallet, headphones, keys. Made his way to the town car out front—waiting, as always, to drive him to the modern high-rise near Bryant Park. Like every morning preceding, he sauntered in through the gold rotating doors with his headphones still in, the only act of defiance he was brave enough to attempt.
Once he got to his office—gesturing away the secretary waving nauseatingly-pink memos near his face—he let out a steadying exhale. His heart was hammering double-time, breakfast threatening to spill into the gold-plated garbage can. Maybe that would be a blessing in disguise; he’d always hated that thing.
“It’s fine, it’s going to be fine,” he muttered to his keyboard.
Rude with all its letters, not to offer any words of encouragement. Anything to offset the memory of his father clapping his back and striding from his office, leaving Sylvain with exactly 24 hours to prepare for the very important presentation he didn’t realize he was giving.
Sad thing was, he hadn’t even been surprised.
He slumped at his desk and stared out the picture window at the grid laid out below him. Ant-sized cars scuttling about along trails of pavement. A metro bus heading down Madison Avenue like an oversized beetle. Squinting through one eye, he held his fingers up until it passed through them.
“Hah!”
The bus only continued along its route, none the wiser to its squished fate. He dropped his hand and sighed, gazing morosely along the hazy horizon. 9:56. Time’s up.
The presentation could’ve gone worse. (That’s what they say when it could’ve gone better, too, but Sylvain was just grateful that he hadn’t thrown up in the middle of it. He was two for two today.) The investors seemed pleased, though the look his father gave him before sweeping out of the conference room told him they’d be discussing his failures later. It wasn’t his fault that the projector had disconnected halfway through, or that he hadn’t been expecting the question concerning their net losses from a minor investment in that non-profit.
Sylvain hadn’t known the answer.
He hadn’t known. He hadn’t known.
And he’d looked to his father, eyes conveying panic over the thousands of dollars he hadn’t known they’d lost. Matthias Gautier had just stared back, eyes betraying nothing.
He ate his overpriced sandwich outside today, allowing the sun to blind him with its temporary freedom between the gaps of buildings. Ruminated for the entire half hour before dusting his hands off on his pants, balling up the wrapper as tight as his chest, and heading back in for his inevitable lecture.
・✦・✦・✦・
“Ingrid, I’m quitting.”
“Mhm.”
She wasn’t listening. (Honestly, Sylvain was surprised she still answered his calls.) He knew that mhm all too well—it's the one she gives him when she’s trying to appease him, when he parrots the same damn sentence to her every conversation with no discernable change succeeding it. Still, it stung a little after the day he’d had.
“Iiiiing, come on.”
He glanced furtively out the golden revolving door, darting through it when he saw the coast was clear, rushing for the nearby subway. Let his father’s driver complain about that. The car always smelled like bad cologne, anyway. He didn’t think his stomach could take it—much better to treat it to some shitty whiskey and shittier conversation. (That was a different kind of regret for the morning after.)
“It was bad,” he continued, shuffling down the concrete steps, “You know he kept me in his office for an hour? He went over the damn presentation point. By. Point. And worse, he wants me to start running the monthly conferences too.”
A sigh, and Sylvain heard her swallow whatever it was she’d started munching on. “Well, what did you expect? For your father to never increase your responsibilities? You are supposed to be taking over the company one day.”
“Never.”
She snorted and immediately started choking. Good. When she returned back to the land of the living, Sylvain could hear the look she was giving him. “You’re joking, right?”
“No. Maybe. I dunno.”
“It’s been three years, Sylvain. Whenever you remember to call me, it’s the same story, and you know how I feel about it. You’re running yourself ragged for a job you never wanted, for someone you’ve always hated. How much longer will you keep running yourself in circles, until you find you can’t run anymore?”
Sylvain pouted as he swiped his card through the turnstile. “You know, you make it very hard to complain to you. Where’s my sympathy? My ‘it’ll be okay, Sylvain, you’ll show him?’”
Her derisive laughter was drowned out by the approaching train. “Stuck with your conviction, back in 2016.”
“Mmm.” The doors clattered open in grimy expectation. “I’m getting on the subway now, gotta go. And really, thanks. For just—”
“Yeah, yeah. And hey, you know. Maybe tomorrow’s the day you finally do something about it.”
He hung up without a reply, staring down at the black screen. Yeah, right. The car filled quickly, passengers jostling each other to get to open space and empty poles. Sylvain found himself toppling into one of the last remaining seats, ignoring the death glare from a guy wearing designer airpods and a collared shirt similar to his own. Was he, too, frustrated with his job, with his perfectly pressed khakis and closely-cropped hair? Or was he like so many others, preening under the attention of his well-groomed style, of his six figure salary and pretentious perks?
The car let out a loud, bemoaning squeal as it pulled from the station, mirroring the collective inner screams of the thousands of other New Yorkers suffering through rush hour on a crowded train. But as Sylvain stared unfocused at the dark walls and stations whizzing by, he couldn’t agree with their dislike. These subway rides were about as much excitement as he allowed himself these days. The stimulation of a crowd, of people forced to coexist—even for just this brief moment—was the only sentiment keeping him sane in a life where everything else was the same.
These precious minutes stayed logged in his consciousness, and his mundane life stood out in sharp relief—fingers brushing over every miserable detail like a painter caressing a finished canvas. He loved the subway. He hated that it forced him to self-examine, a witness at his own trial. The crime: misery. Because everything here was stale. Joyless. Fake. (Including him.)
‘Next Stop, Delancey Street’ ground the static over blown out speakers, and he pulled himself reluctantly from the unforgiving, bright orange plastic. Slicked back his matching bangs. Adjusted his tie slightly too snug against the hollow of his throat, his impeccably-shined shoes squeaking against the glittering floor.
Throwing on his most-hated smile, the doors clattered open to his next performance.
Then, nothing.
Day 1
At least it's not raining today.
It was the third circumstance this morning Felix repeated the newfound mantra in his head—this time because he’d tripped over a stupid crack in the sidewalk, nearly tumbling down the steps to the F train, his phone clattering down each one until it stared morosely up at him from a small pile of discarded napkins. He had half a mind to leave it to its ketchup-covered fate, but he gingerly pulled it from the pile and did his best to wipe it clean.
Circumstance one was going to make a cup of coffee and realizing he’d forgotten to pick up a bag on his last grocery run. He’d been planning on attempting the whole “make it at home” and “save money” shtick after yesterday’s experience, and he’d already failed his first day.
Circumstance two was forgetting his wallet and having to sprint the three blocks back to his apartment.
So by the time Felix walked into the white-walled office (coffee in hand, late again) and bathed his phone in sanitizer, he was already ready for the day to end.
“Kind of you to join us,” Ashe teased goodnaturedly from his seat, eyes sparkling as he watched Felix continue rubbing down his phone.
“Rough morning,” Felix muttered back, sliding into his adjoining cubicle and starting up his computer.
“We all have those days. Here, saved you one.”
Felix caught the small pastry tossed his way just in time. It was a bit squished and tasted mostly like plastic, but the gesture was. Nice. Ashe never seemed miserable here, but maybe that was because he actually cared about the company they were working for. And had a husband. And a house to return to, just on the other side of the river.
He’d invited Felix over, once, and Felix had declined, once, and that had been that. He side-eyed his co-worker, already typing away, the softest classical music playing on lowest volume from his speakers. Felix turned his attention back to his desk, rolled his neck, and reluctantly got to work.
The job… wasn’t terrible.
Excel blinked back at him as he began adding in the list of numbers. He tolerated his few co-workers. Tab. Type. Tab. Type. He was allowed a full hour for lunch. Enter, Enter, Enter. He had medical insurance. Copy, Paste. Tab. Type. Tab. Type. It wasn’t far from his apartment. Tab. Type. Backspace. Type. And it wasn’t raining today. Backspace. Typ—backspace. T—backspace. T—
He exhaled heavily and dragged a hand down his face, hard enough to leave streaks of pink across his cheeks. Maybe he could take an earlier lunch? He glanced at the computer clock—10:47.
The job was terrible.
Lunch, once it finally came, was spent on the highline, where at least there was some semblance of nature. And separation. And a good vantage point for people watching as he dug chopsticks into his poke bowl. Sometimes Ashe or his other co-workers joined him here, which he allowed because at least they’re amiable, but today he needed the space. He texted Annette, who has been trying for weeks to get him out after work (you’re becoming even more boring than you were in college, Felix!) and counted the number of leaves on the birch tree across from him before lunch was done and he was back to counting figures.
The day ended as it started, with Felix cracking his neck, sipping the last dregs of cold coffee, and giving Ashe a half-hearted wave before trading drab decor for drab pavement. He enjoyed the walk to the subway well enough, with headphones jammed in his ears and the very exciting prospect of his show dropping a new episode tonight. Small victories.
The excitement didn’t last.
He was just pushing himself onto the train when he was jostled hard from behind, the hit throwing him off-balance and causing the phone he was holding to slip from his hands for the second time that day. The whole crowd watched in comical horror as it bounced on the pavement, careened into the side of the traincar, and dropped perfectly into that infamous gap to the tracks below. Felix stared blankly after it, headphones still dangling pathetically from his ears. The doors slid closed, trapping him in his embarrassment as it took off without care downtown. All he could do was grip onto a pole, tears of fury pooling in the corners of his eyes.
By the time his stop came he could barely see, brain circling around all the pictures he lost, the important texts, his contacts. His favorite case. His time wasted desanitizing the damn thing just to lose it anyway. He finally ripped the headphones from his ears, shoving ruthlessly towards the door so he’d be first out at his stop.
At least it’s not raining today.
Shut up.
Felix didn’t care about the stupid rain, or his stupid job. He just wanted to get off this damn subway, packed to the brim with commuters just staring at him, like a scapegoat for their own miserable lives. At least I didn’t drop my phone on the track like this poor guy, they were probably thinking.
It made him nauseous—he was already full of self-pity, he didn’t need theirs too. He blinked, the floor beneath him starting to spin as he tried to catch his suddenly lost breath. What station was this? He missed the sign as new commuters knocked the crowd around, marionettes with their strings cut. Weak. Directionless. Defeated. (Just like him.)
Maybe he was panicking. Maybe he should sit down. The doors slammed shut, the noise like a gunshot through his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Then, nothing.
Day 2
Sylvain reached out a flailing hand to shut off the ringing that had cut through his dream, causing his phone to go flying across the room, still yelling its disapproval.
“Shhh, s’too early, Stevie,” he slurred to his ceiling.
Sleep sand stuck to his eyelashes, tempting him back to the world of dreams, but the noise was unrelenting. So he pulled his comforter around him in a poor imitation of staying in bed as he stumbled himself to his phone.
Cut to silence—whatever that meant, in a city that never slept. He squinted at the time; a superfluous act, born of habit.
Because his more optimistic—
He blinked. Stared down again at the date and furrowed his eyebrows. That, with the most overwhelming sense of déja vù he’d ever experienced, had him looking around his room in confusion. Because, no, yesterday had been Tuesday (objectively, the worst of the weekdays), and yet here he was staring down at the date, all shiny and new and forbodding.
He found himself sinking back down on his mattress, unsure if this was all a weird dream. Unless—had he dreamed yesterday’s whole day? The meeting, the lecture, talking to Ingrid? And then afterwards… he wracked his brain, but couldn’t remember how he’d gotten home. He’d been on the subway heading to Ambrosia, then he’d stepped onto the platform and… dark. The rest was dark. Unless he was dreaming now? He pinched his leg. It—well, it hurt. Okay.
Freaking out. He was definitely on the brink of freaking out. No way did he drink enough to black out, not at a work liaison, not so badly he couldn’t remember anything. Fumbling the phone in his clammy hands, he dialed the only person who might be able to put his suspicions to rest.
“You’d better be bleeding out on a sidewalk or something.”
Ingrid sounded somehow both sleepy and a little on edge. Made sense, her job keeps weird hours (she was in San Diego right? Working on that food doc?) And it was rare of Sylvain to call so early unless it was an emergency.
Which, well, it sorta was.
“Heyyyy Ingrid, look I know it’s kinda early for you, I’m sorry, but I need to ask you something important. Do you remember… talking to me yesterday?”
“Uhh, no? Sylvain, we haven’t talked in a month. Wow, how drunk did you get last night?”
Oh fuck. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, trying to breathe deep. “I—I didn’t. I just.”
Yup, he was panicking. But no, he couldn’t lose himself just yet—he had to look at this objectively. Maybe he had drank too much. Maybe he’d just had a super realistic dream. It would make sense that his life had gotten so repetitive that he dreamed the same life he lived now.
And gods, if that wasn’t a depressing thought.
“Sylvain?”
He swallowed, ignoring that his time between now and getting ready for work was dwindling. “Yeah, I just—I could’ve sworn I talked to you yesterday after work. Told you about a meeting. You lectured me on how I’m obviously not quitting my job.”
“Sounds like me. But no, we didn’t talk. The shoot wrapped late yesterday, I got back well past six.”
“That’s—alright. Tell me this. What day is it today?”
“Okay, now I’m getting concerned. It’s Tuesday, the 18rd. And it’s also way past eight, which means you’re running late. Sylvain—” her voice softens, caring, and a pang of guilt settles in Sylvian’s gut— “seriously, do you need me to call someone for you?”
“I—” He broke off, wiping a sweaty palm on the comforter still wrapped around his shoulders. He could figure this out. It’s fine. It would be— “I’m fine. Sorry. I guess uh, I’m just a little thrown off. Look, Ing, I gotta go, important meeting today—”
“Wait, hang on! You can’t just—you wake me up at five am just to—”
“I’m sorry. I promise I’ll call you later, okay?”
He hung up before she could get in another word and threw his phone on his pillow, staring at it for several more seconds he didn’t have. There was nothing else to do, except start his day and try to forget about it.
Which lasted not even two minutes. Should he wash his hair, again? Or, no wait, for the first time? His head swam when faced with the same maroon shirt he’d pulled out yesterday, crisp and clean on its hanger. Cufflinks glinted the same gaudy silver as he attached them with trembling fingers. The tea, the breakfast bar, his shoes. Everything the same.
He stopped short at the entrance of his apartment complex, just staring at the waiting towncar with the driver poised to open the door, the sudden urge to run overtaking him. But no. Things were supposed to be fine—he just needed to forget. His legs carried him to the car, Sylvain a reluctant passenger to his body as autopilot kicked in.
Secretary, pink memos. Had Sylvain even read any of them yesterday? His office, drenched in morning sunlight, the residual puddles from yesterday’s rain, the bus traveling down Madison out the window. This time he didn’t bother to play his usual game, letting it trundle out of sight down the avenue.
Twenty pairs of eyes stared at him as he cleared his throat, shuffling the papers in his hands as he stood before the investors, his father lost in the shadows behind them, watching. Always watching. He remembered the smile, at least, launching into a repeat of words he’d remembered speaking before, albeit slightly more clear.
The projector flickered, and Sylvain froze mid-sentence. Blinked. This couldn’t be. A realistic dream is possible, sure, but this? This was something else entirely.
“Mr. Gautier?”
Sylvain started, eyes wildly flitting around the room, lost momentarily in the sheer out of body experience he was having. Then, something clicked into place. He pasted the cutout smile back on his face, refusing to meet where his father’s eyes were most likely popping out of his sockets.
“I apologize. Let me just check our connection.”
This time Sylvain’s quick reset stopped the projector from cutting out. This time he finished his talk less flustered, and realized, as the questions began, that he knew what was coming.
“One thing I didn’t notice Mr. Gautier,” the investor began, hands steepled in front of him as he stared down Sylvain in challenge, “was a report on the Blaiddyd account, stating why it saw such a major dip last term.”
He didn’t know. Except now he did—or at least, his dream-lecturing father had. It was worth a shot. Straightening up, he met the challenge with one of his own.
“I’m glad you asked. The investment into Blaiddyd was a small one, a low-yield risk we were willing to take. Before the dip, you can see that the account actually increased far further than the amount lost, and then some. Overall, we’re still at a net gain of 2.3%.” He took a steadying breath before continuing, hoping against hope the numbers he was throwing into the ether actually meant something. “That being said, if the account does continue to drop, our company will have no choice to pull its remaining investment. You will be notified, of course.”
Sylvain couldn’t help the way his eyes drifted to his father, heart pounding in his chest. This was it—the true test of whether or not yesterday had only been a dream… or something more.
There was no anger, no red face, no quick interruptions or apologies. His father only inclined his head ever so slightly before wrapping up the meeting, and Sylvain felt on the brink of fainting when he settled in his office chair ten long minutes later.
This was impossible. Impossible. And yet, here he was, unable to deny it. He swallowed hard, fingers curling through his tangerine tresses and pulling desperately. Taking in the rough grain wood of the desk, his shallow breathing, the indistinguishable murmur of coworkers outside his office door. He was crazy, this was crazy, and thanked the heavens that the rest of the day passed by quickly (albeit, in an all-too-familiar blur).
He practically bowled over an unsuspecting couple on the sidewalk as he raced towards the subway, taking the steps two at a time as he dialed Ingrid’s number.
“Seeing as you hung up on me this morning, you’re lucky I even—”
“Ingrid, I’m freaking out. Like for real freaking out, not like, pretend just so you’ll forgive me freaking out.” He swiped his metrocard and tumbled through the turnstile. “I don’t—I think I’m—”
“Hey, okay, breathe. What’s going on?”
It was all so real, too real. He couldn’t be dreaming now, just like he wasn’t dreaming then.
“Ing I think—I think I just lived the same day twice.”
SIlence on the other end as the train pulled into the station. Well, that wasn’t a surprise, knowing Ingrid she probably thought Sylvain was fucking with her. He couldn’t blame her. The doors slid open, and he had an awful sense of foreboding as he stepped on. Wait, hadn’t he—
The jostling from more boarding passengers sent him into the empty seat across the way.
“Watch it!” he snapped at the crowd, the man with designer airpods and collared shirt similar to his own smirking and raising a judging eyebrow before moving down the car. Asshole. He was nothing like Sylvain. He was everything like Sylvain.
“Sylvain? What’s going on?”
“Sorry. Nothing. I’m fine.” Why had he called her now, when his service was cutting out anyway? “I’m about to lose you. I’ll, let me—”
He broke off again. Because yesterday this is where it all went dark. He remembered nothing about the rest of the night, and he had no blueprint for what to do. Before he could say anything more, the train pulled away with the same grating squeal, and his phone beeped, signifying the dropped call. Swallowing, he cast his eyes around the car. He took in the faces, aside from “asshole pretentious man,” with his back now turned to him, there was “woman reading mystery novel” three seats down, “loud child giggling with their mother” near the doors, “older gentleman clicking through his phone” swaying with the car.
Had they all been here yesterday? Were they also reliving a day, like him, lost in a hazy confusion? From how relaxed they all looked, he highly doubted it. Then again, he’d tried his best to appear unphased most of the day, so it was definitely possible he wasn’t the only one. A dull pounding formed over his right eye. This was too much to try and make sense of.
‘Next Stop, Delancey Street’ ground static over blown out speakers, and he pulled himself from the unforgiving, bright orange plastic. His headache grew worse as he slicked back his matching bangs.
Adjusted his tie slightly too snug against the hollow of his throat. Loosened it again, the feeling suffocating instead of grounding this time. The smile felt more like a pained grimace, and he waited anxiously for the doors to clatter open.
He stepped onto the gum-covered platform, missing the way his impeccably-shined shoes squeaked against the concrete. He fumbled with his phone as commuters brushed past him, clicking on Ingrid’s name.
Day 3
Felix was very upset it wasn’t raining. He stared out at the sunny morning, mocking him as he silently fumed. Or panicked. Maybe both.
He’d done a great job of convincing himself yesterday was a fluke. A delusion made up by the fact that his mind had nothing else to think about. He’d missed the black, leatherbound journal at first—and it was only upon re-entering the apartment for his forgotten wallet that he spotted it sitting innocently on the kitchen counter. He stared at it. Looked around the apartment while slowly edging to the knife block.
He’d felt a bit like an idiot with the way he’d torn back the shower curtain, threatening nothing but his bottle of Irish Spring with a filet knife, but hey. He’d been panicking (and now every inanimate object in his apartment knew he wasn’t messing around).
It was enough to bring the book with him, even as he’d pretended catching the pastry from Ashe was a new experience, even as he’d inputted numbers into his excel sheet that he’d already seen. His phone had been back, then covered in ketchup, then lost again as it fell through the subway gap.
So: the journal had been opened to the first page as the subway clattered towards downtown, a pen shaking in Felix’s hand as he tried to make sense of what the goddess damned fuck was going on.
Hello
This was stupid. He stared down at the page, wondering why he expected anything to happen. The words sat there, untidy and dark. Nothing happened. This was stupid. He’d huffed, and stuffed the book back in his bag, and waited to arrive at his stop.
And then he’d woken up to the sun cutting through the blinds, again, and his phone sitting in its rightful place, again, and he knew now that something was desperately, horribly wrong. The problem was, Felix didn’t know what to do about it.
He lunged for his phone, begging and pleading in his mind that he’d see something different but— 8:15am. Tuesday, April 18th. If he hadn’t just experienced the pain of losing his phone twice in two days, he would’ve chucked it across the room. Instead he forced himself into standing, and forced himself to remain calm.
But by the time he was forcing down the last bite of plastic-y pastry and re-re-sanitizing his phone, Felix couldn’t force it any longer.
“I need a minute,” he grunted at a bewildered Ashe, before dashing off to the men’s room—only stopping to breathe once the door was locked and he was gripping either side of the porcelain sink, his pale, wide-eyed reflection staring back at him.
“Come on,” he demanded to it, as though it could hear him, as though it held some answer in some parallel-universe mirror dimension. No. There were no parallel-universe dimensions.
But then—there weren’t supposed to be repeats of days either, and yet here Felix was. Because he couldn’t deny the twisted logic of it. He could still taste the croissant in his mouth, mixing with the coffee shop coffee he’d had to buy because he didn’t have the new bag he’d meant to buy because it was the same. Fucking. Day. His third Same Fucking Day, and he’d done the Same Fucking Things. Because Felix… Felix didn’t know what else to do. And it was terrifying.
“Felix?”
The sound of Ashe’s voice from the other side of the door startled him so hard he smacked his hip right into the corner of the sink. Cursing, he hobbled to the door and tugged it open, revealing the concerned face of his co-worker.
“Are you alright? You don’t look so good.”
Felix scrubbed a hand down his face, willing his racing heart to slow enough so he could at least hear himself think.
“Fine. Sorry. I’m not sure I should’ve eaten that croissant. In fact—” He thought quickly, and decided to test a theory. “Can you not save me one tomorrow, if I’m late again?”
Ashe’s eyes widened, his face flushing pink. “Oh, uh, o-of course, I’m so sorry. I just thought—”
“It’s not you,” Felix hastily amended, wondering how even with trying not to be rude, he still managed to hurt someone’s feelings. Ashe really deserved a better cubicle-mate. “I’m just thinking of uh—cutting down on carbs. Maybe eating at home.”
“Hmm, Dedue has been suggesting we try the same thing,” Ashe mused, as they headed back to their desks, “but our schedules just never sync up in the mornings.” He let out a small sigh, plopping into his chair, momentum swiveling him towards Felix. The concern was back on his face. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
He attempted a smile, but judging by Ashe’s eyebrow raise, it didn’t quite make it. He sighed and opted instead to stare out the window. “I’ll be fine. But thanks. Really.”
Once Ashe’s steady clicking resumed, Felix pulled the black notebook from yesterday out, turning to the first page and forcibly scribbling out the hello he’d written yesterday. It looked even more ridiculous now. He flipped to the next clean page.
4.18 - Day 3
He paused, chewed his lip, and then continued. Might as well give something a shot.
Asked Ashe not to give pastry. Will report back tomorrow.
…This was the stupidest thing Felix had ever done.
He still input excel numbers. Still ate on the highline. Skipped counting leaves (76, he muttered to himself as he passed it on his way to the garbage can), and listened to another familiar album as he arrived at the subway station. But as he swiped through the turnstile and caught sight of the train he stopped short. Stared down at his phone. Stared back up at the train. Slid the phone into his pocket.
He pushed himself onto the train and felt the familiar hard jostle from behind, throwing him off-balance—but this time the heavy guitar riffs continued in his ears, and as the doors clattered shut, a rush of victory surged through his veins.
Day 6
“Before you even ask, Mr. Glouscester, let me stop you right there. You want to know about the investment account, am I correct?”
There was something satisfying about the look of bewilderment on the normally smug man’s face, mirrored in his father’s, as Sylvain began a deliberate pace around the room—nodding at the rest of his captivated audience.
“What, you didn’t think we forgot, did you? No, no. My family takes pride in all our investments, even the minor ones. What I can tell you is this. Was there a loss? Absolutely. Does it affect the overall positive percentage of the net gain? Barely.” He paused, hands clasping behind his back. “We aren’t without humanity, Mr. Glouscester, and even our smallest money-earners matter. If things continue to decline, well then yes, we’ll be forced to re-examine. But for now, the Blaiddyd account stays.”
He leaned across the table, fingers splayed wide as he cast his eyes over each person at the table.
“Any other questions?”
Once the room cleared and the door slammed shut in finality, Sylvain’s father turned, casting an appreciative eye over his son.
“You know Sylvain, I wasn’t sure you had it in you. But I’m impressed. You’ve obviously done your homework.”
Sylvain smiled, biting at his cheeks to keep the more honest words from falling out his mouth, instead searching until he could figure out the proper things to say.
“I only learned from the best, Father.”
Mr. Gautier smirked, and Sylvain could feel the blood pounding in his head.
“Come by my office later. We should celebrate the success of your first meeting. If you keep this up, we may be in a good position, barring any… difficulties, that is.”
Ah, and there it was. Even in the flawless delivery, his father never failed to find the flaw: Sylvain himself.
“Yes, sir,” he found himself saying, trailing wordlessly behind his father until he was left at the door of his own, smaller office. He was tempted to barricade himself in, the forced smile and posture slipping as soon as the door was closed.
The meeting had gone well. Too well. Perfect, now, the fifth time. And each time Sylvain felt worse, grew even more nauseous. What about tomorrow? Would that be the day he finally chucked up his oat bar breakfast all over Mr. Gloucester’s shiny, bald head?
The idea didn’t actually sound half-bad.
Because putting on such an act was Sylvain’s least favorite party trick. And he’d just spent four days refining it, getting it just right, only to come to the inevitable conclusion: that even if he tried at his job, and even if he did it right, it didn’t matter. He still hated it. Hated what he’d become, and hated himself even more because of it. The look his father had just given him in the conference room all but confirmed it. There was no escape.
No moving on. Trapped forever to give the same meeting to the same horrible people, never to progress.
The two whiskey glasses with his father didn’t help his spiraling thoughts, stumbling again into the empty, orange seat as the passengers pushed in. He thought about calling Ingrid, but what could she tell him the fifth time that she hadn’t already? He’d told her to write down that they’d talked, so when he called she’d remember, but her phone was empty along with her memory.
It’d been… Well. It hadn’t been Sylvain’s best moment. He was half-convinced Ingrid thought he was actually crazy, or going through some sort-of crisis. Which he technically was—just not in the way she thought.
His stop rang out all too soon and he found himself in front of the doors, staring through the dirty glass, dread pooling in his stomach. They lurched open, and before he could consider turning back around, he was spilled out onto the platform along with the tide.
Day 8
It was pathetic how quickly Felix broke down and called for backup. He’d barely make it a week. A week of excel numbers zooming by, a week of Ashe’s same classical playlist. He was stupid, or stubborn, or—what was the phrase? Idiocy is doing the same thing but expecting the same result? Maybe that was insanity.
The coffee between his hands was slowly cooling, and he fidgeted with the cardboard cuff separating him from the fading warmth. He couldn’t stop thinking about his empty cubicle, which should be the last thing on his mind. It’s not like he’d ever missed work before. But this felt different—like he was skipping school or breaking some unspoken rule. Maybe Annette had been right, and he really had become boring. He frowned.
“Felix!”
Speaking of. He removed his hands from his drink just in time; a small orange-haired blob came barreling into him, knocking both of them into the table and bashing the breath from his lungs.
“Hey,” he managed to choke into her hair, and he was rewarded with a hundred-watt smile.
(He usually never lets anyone else get this close. But Annette was a firm exception.)
“About time you called! I was thinking work had finally killed you, you know I haven’t even heard from Ashe—oh, sorry—” she reached around him to grab a handful of napkins (her gesturing had splashed coffee across the table) and extracted herself from Felix’s bony arms. “And I haven’t seen you in over a month! This must be serious.”
She swung around to the other side of the table, leaning in on her elbows conspiratorially. “Sooo? What was so bad that the Felix Fraldarius actually skipped work to meet up? Alien invasion?” She tapped her chin and wrinkled her nose. “No, you’d never believe in that. How about—is there a war coming? Are you a secret spy?” Her face turned grave. “My father didn’t try to contact you, did he? Because I made it clear—”
“No,” he interrupted, before she could really get going, “everything’s fine. I mean, I haven’t heard from anyone. And I’m not dead. Obviously. I’m not a—” he broke off. The spy thing was probably rhetorical. “I don't know how to start.”
He’d been trying to figure out how to word it ever since he’d dialed her number, halfway through a panic attack, leaning out his stupid sunny window trying to breathe. (He’d just gotten a lungful of smog, which hadn’t helped.) And now he was here. Idea-less. Because how the hell was he supposed to drop this kind of information? There wasn’t even proof. The wild idea of him growing a beard came and went in the same moment, hating the visual of looking like his father and hating even more that he probably wouldn’t even have half the hair if he even tried it.
Stupid genetics.
“How about from the beginning?” Annette ventured, cutting through the long silence and his racing thoughts.
Right. Explaining the situation. Her suggestion was just as crazy as anything else he could’ve come up with, so. From the beginning it was.
When he finished, her mouth was hanging open—a testament to just how crazy his story was that he was able to render someone like Annette speechless. In the resulting silence, the waitress delivered her coffee (some caramel and sugar and whipped cream monstrosity), and she mechanically slurped a giant strawful. It at least seemed to break her out of her daze.
“Right. Yes. Okay.” A loud breath. “So, back up.” She flourished the straw at him, dotting her face and the table with cream. “You said you have a notebook? To keep track?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
He reached into the bag, hesitating before handing it over. It’s not like there was anything personal in there. Days of increasing panic. His tracking of the croissant from Ashe (now eight days of the worst pastry he’d ever eaten. He’d given up rejecting it, unable to bear the repeated hurt that kept crossing over his co-worker’s face). One or two extraneous notes just to have them: the number of birch leaves. That it wasn’t raining. The beginnings of a to-do list of things he wanted to do once the next day remembered them, which wasn’t exactly private but read a little sad.
And a scratched out hello that was never answered.
She pored through it quickly, little mhms and nods in between coffee sips. Felix was back to fidgeting, his own coffee now a few sad grounds at the bottom of his cup.
“Okay,” she finally said, and Felix couldn’t help sitting up a little straighter. She stuck her straw into the bottom of her ice and announced decisively: “I believe you.”
“Wh—you do?”
Felix was surprised to hear the relief in his voice.
“Well duh.” She sighed, tapping the book with an insistent finger. “Felix, I've known you for years. Of all the weird things you have done or could do, making up an elaborate prank like this is not one of them—”
That didn’t exactly cheer him up the way it probably should, the word boring ping-ponging through his mind. Because why couldn’t he make up an elaborate prank? He could make up a prank. If he wasn’t currently living through his worst nightmare, he absolutely would make up a prank. He was not boring.
“—lus the fact that you actually look like you’re freaking out.”
“Huh?”
Annette huffed in the most disarming way possible. “Felix! Were you even listening to me?”
“I was,” he half-lied, frowning, “and I definitely could make up a prank.”
“No, you couldn’t,” she said simply, and when Felix went to argue she steamrolled over him. “You don’t need to win everything, you know. Now, back to the task at hand.” She tapped the book again. “So since I believe you, and since you’re apparently stuck in time—which sounds amazing by the way, I would love some time to myself—”
He shot her a glare, which she waved off.
“Ugh fine, you’re always so serious about things! Anyway. What we need to do now is come up with a plan.
That much was obvious. What wasn’t obvious was how.
“Okay… like what?”
“Well, you said no one remembers anything, right? No friends or co-workers? Everyone just thinks it's the same day?”
Felix nodded. “I texted you yesterday, and you don’t remember it. Everything just repeats regardless of what I do.”
“Everything except the book… right?”
They both looked down at the page open on the table between them.
8:17am
Another pastry. Look up how much plastic can I ingest before it poisons me.
“Yeah,” he muttered, shutting the book before Annette re-read the 2:34 I hate birch trees entry.
Her face cracked into an exuberant grin, waving to the waitress for another coffee and knocking hers onto the seat of the booth.
“Whoops! Good thing it was empty this time. Anyway. Do you have a pen? I think I have an idea. And we’re gonna need to call for backup.”