Darkness enveloped her, as though a vast expanse of midnight cloth had wrapped itself tightly around her senses. Mary Anne was aware, yet her eyelids felt impossibly heavy. Suddenly, a sweeping sense of weightlessness took over, as though she was endlessly plummeting downward. This must be a nightmare, Mary Anne thought.

A faint noise began to emerge, distant and blurry at first, slowly growing louder, accompanied by an indistinct clamor that gradually sharpened into focus.

“Mary Anne? Mary Anne?”

Someone was calling her name... 

Mary Anne's eyes flew open. She gasped for air, her chest laboring as she gulped in deep draughts, air rushing into her lungs and coursing through her limbs, finally bringing her back to life.

Anne Smith, startled, tightened her grip on Mary Anne's arm with urgent concern. “What happened?”

Mary Anne took a moment to steady herself. “It's nothing,” she replied.

“You scared me!” Anne Smith pressed a hand against her racing heart. “As long as you're okay, we need to get ready for class.”

“Class?”

“Yeah, it's Mr. Jones's period next,” Anne Smith answered, shuffling through a daunting stack of books before turning back to her. “What happened? You seem dazed after just a short nap.”

Class, nap, Mr. Jones...

Mr. Jones had been her high school math teacher. She was his class representative, after all.

These long-forgotten words tumbed from Anne Smith's mouth...

Wait, Anne Smith!

Mary Anne blinked in confusion, dread rising like a cold sweat across her skin.

Anne Smith stood there with short hair and a school uniform—a stark contrast to the wild curls and sophisticated attire Mary Anne remembered from their last meeting. This was, undeniably, her high school version.

High school...

Mary Anne glanced down at herself—she too wore the peculiar blue and white uniform of her past, her desk laden with books and exam papers. Her heart raced as she surveyed the classroom, her gaze settling on faces both familiar and foreign.

She had seen them all just months ago, or rather, the more mature versions of them.

Was she dreaming still, she wondered?

Anne Smith watched as Mary Anne, uncharacteristically, glanced about the room and seemed to retreat into her thoughts, before bending over her desk as if sleeping again. She leaned closer, concern lacing her voice. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“No,” Mary Anne grumbled softly.

“Well, let me know if you do,” Anne Smith advised, returning to her own work of correcting mistakes.

Her seatmate was definitely acting odd today, Anne Smith mused.

No surprise, then, when Mary Anne suddenly straightened, raking her fingers through her hair in frustration, before blurting out, “What grade are we in now?”

Anne Smith looked up, nonplussed.

“We're seniors, of course, and we've got mock exams coming up. Feeling more awake now?” she teased.

Mary Anne took a swig from her water bottle. “Yeah, I'm awake.”

What kind of situation was this!?

Wasn’t she just living the good life, sharing intimate moments with Tom Hudson? How had she wound up back in a high school classroom, grinding away at practice tests?

And senior year, no less! If she couldn't return, would she have to go through college entrance exams all over again?

Damn!

Speaking of Tom Hudson...

Mary Anne was seated in the third-to-last row, and she vaguely remembered that Tom Hudson, being tall, had always been assigned the last row.

She craned her neck to look, only to be interrupted by Mr. Jones’s voice.

“Mary Anne,” he called from the front as he entered the classroom. “Can you help distribute these papers?”

Mr. Jones wasn’t old then—not yet forty, before he’d developed that telltale teacher’s paunch.

Mary Anne had visited him recently, noting more gray but equally the spark in his eyes and his sharp wit. When she inquired about his youthful resilience, he joked, “It’s all you students. As long as you don’t drive me to an early grave, I stay young.”

Warm sentiments swelled in her chest at their unexpected reunion.

She approached the desk, preparing to hand out papers individually, only to be stopped by Mr. Jones, unscrewing the lid of his thermos. “Call for them to come up and collect their own papers.”

Mary Anne felt a small thrill. This was perfect—an opportunity to reacquaint herself with everyone. A teacher after her own heart!

“Should I read out their scores as well?” she half-joked.

Mr. Jones shot her a look. “That’s your call.”

Deciding not to be cruel, she called out names while bypassing scores. Reading scores aloud would be an unnecessary cruelty.

Each paper lifted revealed another name. As she read “Tom Hudson,” she realized fully what she was saying, watching as he climbed to his feet.

No wonder she hadn’t spotted him—he sat unassumingly at the end of her own row.

Mary Anne felt the surreal wash over her, the murky recollection of Tom Hudson suddenly crystallizing into the real, present figure before her.

He appeared tall, likely past six feet even as a senior, his demeanor composed, his sharp gaze softened beneath the black-framed glasses he wore. Despite the years, Mary Anne could trace the threads of continuity between this boy and the man she knew.

Could it be, she pondered, that Tom Hudson, too, had somehow returned to this moment?

Announcing “150 points” as she passed the test paper into his hands, her tone was unabashedly impressed.

Tom Hudson paused, glanced up at her with surprise, and Mary Anne couldn’t help but genuinely praise, “You’re amazing.”

After all, it was a perfect score.