Chapter 2
I didn't keep reading.
Not because I made some brave decision—my thumb just stopped moving.
The phone felt heavier than it should have. I locked the screen and placed it face-down on the bed, like that might stop anything else from happening. The room was quiet in a way I suddenly noticed, the kind that makes you aware of your own breathing.
It's a coincidence, I told myself.
That explanation was simple. Comfortable. Millions of people read web novels. Millions of people wake up tired, scroll their phones, procrastinate, overthink messages. None of that belonged to me alone.
I stood up and went to get water. The floor was cold under my feet. The tap made its usual noise. I drank slowly, counting swallows without meaning to, the way you do when you're trying to feel normal again.
Nothing strange happened.
That helped.
By the time I came back, my heart had slowed enough for embarrassment to creep in. I'd scared myself over a story. That was all.
I picked up my phone.
No new messages.
The novel had updated again.
I noticed the update time before anything else. Then the battery percentage. Then I opened another app, closed it, opened it again—small, pointless checks, just to remind myself that the phone still did what I told it to.
Only then did I tap the novel.
The chapters had titles now.
The newest one read: Second Life: Adjustment Period.
I told myself I was only curious. I wanted to see how far the coincidence stretched. I wanted proof that it would stop.
The chapter started right after the revival.
No panic. No confusion.
The main character woke up in the same room, on the same day, in the same body. He didn't sit up right away. He stared at the ceiling and thought about how unfair it was that nothing looked different.
That thought lingered in my head longer than it should have.
The narration focused on small things—the weight of the blanket, the familiar crack in the ceiling, the distant sound of traffic. The character checked his phone, then hesitated before opening his messages.
He wondered if replying differently this time would change anything.
I closed the app.
That wasn't generic.
That was something I did. Something I'd done recently—rewriting replies in my head, imagining alternate versions of conversations that were already over.
After a moment, I opened the chapter again.
The character moved through his day carefully, like the world might react if he wasn't. He avoided the place where the accident had happened. Took a longer route home. Paid attention to things he usually ignored.
Nothing went wrong.
No sudden danger. No punishment for changing routine.
The chapter didn't end dramatically. Just a quiet realization: surviving felt heavier than dying.
The comments loved it.
They called it realistic.
They called it mature.
They said the author understood psychology.
One comment caught my eye.
The author understands regret too well.
I scrolled past it faster than I meant to.
Near the end of the chapter, the main character thought about the limit of his ability for the first time. Not by dying—but by wondering what would happen after the hundredth life.
The narration didn't answer.
It just said:
I try not to think about what comes after the last one.
I locked my phone again.
This time, my hands were shaking, and there was no pretending otherwise.
I barely slept that night. Every time I closed my eyes, my thoughts circled back—not to the events of the chapter, but to how confident it sounded. Like the story wasn't guessing. Like it already knew what mattered.
In the morning, I searched my own name.
Nothing unusual came up. Old profiles. Forgotten posts. Accounts I didn't use anymore. No novel. No reflection waiting somewhere obvious.
That should have reassured me.
Instead, it felt like checking the ground after hearing something move beneath it.
As I was leaving, my phone buzzed.
A notification from the platform.
Author's note posted.
I hesitated before opening it.
It was short.
Second lives are always the hardest. You remember enough to regret things—but not enough to fix them properly.
No username.
No signature.
Just the note.
I checked the timestamp.
Three minutes ago.
My phone buzzed again.
A private message.
From an account I didn't recognize.
No profile picture.
No history.
Just one line.
Did you notice what you did differently today?