The video kept playing, but he wasn't listening anymore.
"…so if you take this as the anti-derivative..."
He paused it again. Silence. The symbols on the screen looked familiar, but their meaning didn't. Three hours of trying, and he still didn't understand a thing.
He rubbed his eyes, leaned closer, dragged the timeline back, played it again. Nothing changed.
A dry laugh escaped him.
"Useless…"
His reflection flickered briefly on the black screen.
He froze. His hand moved to his hair, adjusting it slightly, then again. It still didn't look right. Never did. He quickly turned his attention back to the video.
His phone buzzed beside him. He didn't want to check it, but he did anyway. Another reminder. Another test schedule. Another push from a world that didn't care whether he was ready or not.
NUST.
National University of Sciences and Technology
The name itself felt heavy. People spent years building a foundation for it. He was trying to fix everything in a few months.
Gym? Tried. The first few days, his body ached so badly he could barely lift his arms. Every movement reminded him how weak he felt. Others moved with ease. He didn't.
Study plan? Made, broken, remade, broken again.
Government job prep? Started with hope. Now just another tab, rarely touched.
Medical? Two failures already. And now a third chance hanging in front of him like a fragile thread. Pass, and maybe life stabilizes. Fail, and he starts from zero again.
"What am I even doing…"
No answer came. Only silence.
Evening turned into night without him noticing. He forced himself to study again. For a moment, something clicked. Just enough to feel like progress. Then the next step came—and everything collapsed again.
Frustration didn't explode. It built slowly. Quietly. Tightening in his chest.
Later, he stared at a list. Names. Roll numbers. Merit positions. Careful. Hopeful. His name wasn't there.
For a few seconds, he felt nothing. Then something inside him just… dropped. Empty.
"If I had just started earlier…"
His thoughts started racing faster.
Not strong enough. Not consistent enough. Not disciplined enough. Even standing in a group, he never felt like he stood out. If anything… he felt smaller than he should be.
"I can't even fix myself…"
His hand tightened slightly in the blanket. "Not my habits… not my body… not even something as simple as this."
His fingers moved to his hair again, unconsciously. Then stopped. Slowly dropped back down.
Sleep didn't come.
Half-asleep. Half-aware.
And somewhere in that blurred state, one thought surfaced:
"If I had one more chance…"
"…I wouldn't live like this again."
A faint sound. Unfamiliar.
"…he's awake?"
His eyes opened. Slowly. The ceiling looked different. Lower. Simpler.
He lifted his hand—and froze.
Small. Too small.
His heart started pounding. Fast. Confused.
Children's laughter echoed outside. Running footsteps.
He looked around. Then at his hands.
"This… isn't…"
His voice came out softer. Higher.
Dream? No. Too real. Too detailed.
He stood up unsteadily, legs unfamiliar, balance off. Each step felt wrong.
And deep inside, a realization began forming:
"…this can't be a dream."
His small hands clenched. Heart still racing. But now… not just from fear.
"…I got a second chance."