Second Chance

— Hey, asshole! — Charlie, the school bully, was as cheerful as ever, strolling along with a bunch of the same idiot friends, about to light up a smoke when he spotted Martin Banner — that same eternally hunched-over guy who always stuck to the walls like glue and looked like he was apologizing just for existing.

— Look who it is — our little professor snot-face! — Charlie drawled with a smirk, winking at Jason and Trevor. They were already giggling on autopilot, like dumb puppies, savoring the moment before their usual little humiliation ritual kicked off.

Martin flinched, clutching a thick notebook to his chest — stuffed full of formulas, graphs, and probably a million other smart-ass words nobody gave a shit about. He tried to speed up, but Charlie, tall, muscular, with perpetually messy blond hair, had already crossed the street diagonally, blocking his path.

— Where you off to, genius? Another extra class on "How to Stay a Virgin Till Retirement"?

— I need to go, — Martin mumbled, but there was something shaky in his voice, almost pleading — which only added fuel to the fire, of course.

— Go on then! Just don’t fall under a car — wouldn’t wanna scrape your brains off the asphalt. God forbid someone steps in it.

And then...

A sharp screech of brakes, and right after — a loud, sudden thud. A crack, like time itself just shattered for a second, like glass.

Charlie didn’t even have time to react. Just — headlights. Just — the blare of a horn. Just — his body flying back like a ragdoll slammed onto the pavement. And then silence.

He didn’t feel pain. Didn’t feel anything. No sounds, no wind, no ground beneath him. Everything just... froze. And suddenly...

— What... the hell?! Where the fuck am I?! — he could speak, but he couldn’t feel his body — like every single sense just shut off, like all that was left was his mind and this all-consuming darkness.

— You died, Charlie. — The voice came from nowhere. Neither male nor female. It just was. No emotion, no irritation, no scare tactics. Like someone politely telling you the bus left and there’s no point waiting for the next one.

— What?! No, no, you’re kidding. Hey! I didn’t... This can’t be! I... — he tried to move, but there was nothing to move — only his consciousness, or rather, his soul, shapeless, bodiless.

— You died in a collision with a car. Instantly. No pain. Admit it — in a way, you got lucky.

— Lucky?! I... I’m supposed to be alive! I can’t just... vanish like that! I’ve still got my whole life ahead of me! Plans, friends, dates! — he suddenly realized how pathetic he sounded, how his voice was trembling — just like that Martin guy he was mocking moments ago. And for some reason, that feeling cut deep, leaving a bitter aftertaste.

Silence. Then the voice again:

— Do you want to go back?

— Of course! Of course I do!

— But then you’ll have to...

— I don’t care! I’ll go to church, I’ll believe in God, I’ll be good! I... I’ll do anything! You hear me?! ANYTHING! Just send me back!

— Anything, huh? — and now, for the first time, there was something... ironic in the voice. — Then so be it.

He wanted to ask what that meant, but suddenly...

The world twisted, everything around spun into a whirlpool of bright colors, flashing and morphing faster than he could comprehend, and finally — Charlie began to feel again. The sensations that every person takes for granted — the feel of air on your skin, the texture of fabric, the weight of arms, legs, muscles...

He was lying on a hard, uncomfortable surface, feeling crumbs, bumps, and this weird stickiness underneath him — like a kitchen counter nobody had properly wiped in weeks — and that exact nasty, sticky texture under his cheek is what brought him back to reality. Not the smells, not the sounds, not some grand revelation — just that gross, clingy surface.

He opened his eyes, immediately squeezing them shut — not from bright light, no, it was dim, yellowish, like an old bulb — but from the shock. The absurdity of what he saw.

She was lying face down on the kitchen table, and in her hands… in her hands was a spoon, with some leftover oatmeal slowly sliding off — already clumped together like a child’s grudge. Slowly, with a strained, rasping breath, she pushed herself up — and instantly, everything felt wrong.

First of all, the breasts. They were there. Not just there — they were heavy, hanging like dead weight, pressing against the tank top she was absolutely sure she hadn’t put on, and with every movement they swayed unpleasantly, pulling on her skin, making it feel like someone had strapped sandbags to her chest. She jerked away from the table, grabbing her breasts — and instantly felt slender, feminine fingers clutch at the fabric, nails digging into her own side as if trying to claw her way back into her old flesh through pain.

— What the… fuck… — she exhaled, but the voice wouldn’t obey. It was hoarse, worn out, with a raspy edge — the voice of a woman who smoked too much, slept too little, and had endured for far too long. Not just any woman’s voice — a mother’s. Controlled, trained to command and beg at the same time, hoping that maybe today the kids wouldn’t rip each other apart over breakfast.

She stood up, unsteady, feeling her back strain, and in her legs — heavy, filled with a dull aching exhaustion — pain rang out like she’d spent the whole night hauling sacks of cement instead of sleeping. The body was large. Not fat, no. Solid, but not young — a body that knew what it was to carry a child on one hip, to drag grocery bags up flights of stairs when the elevator was broken again. She — or more accurately, her body — ran a hand across her face and found a bruise under the eye. Pulsing, fresh, but not from a hit — more from lack of sleep, stress, something long-term and grinding.

— Is this... a joke? — she whispered, stepping toward the mirror above the sink. A tired woman’s face stared back — chapped lips, shallow but stubborn wrinkles clinging to the corners of her eyes, and heavy eyelids that looked like they’d lived through entire cities of sleepless nights, anxiety, and chronic compromises. Her skin had a dull, ashen tone, like someone who hadn’t eaten properly in a long time and never slept more than four hours straight. Her hair — sloppily tied in a bun — was held together by a single hair clip, barely keeping it from collapsing into chaos. And all of it stared at her with this... resignation, like that face had learned to endure, to come last in line — if not be erased from it entirely.

From the next room came the creak of floorboards, then a dull thump, and again — footsteps. Martin appeared in the doorway... That same Martin Banner she had bullied not so long ago... He stood there fully dressed: a plain T-shirt, pretty old and clearly stretched out, and dark jeans that fit slightly crooked on him, like he’d pulled them on in a hurry, one hand holding his phone. His gaze was lowered, like he was ashamed of something but didn’t want to talk about it.

— Mom, I grabbed my notebook — he muttered, walking past without even looking up. — Don’t forget to stop by Mrs. Hawkins today, she asked again about some insurance paper you need to fill out... You’ve got the night shift again, right?

— Ma... ma... Mom?! — she choked on the word, like just saying it out loud burned her throat. And in that very second, something inside her shifted — spread through her whole body and stabbed into her brain so deep it would never leave. It wasn’t a thought. It wasn’t someone else’s voice. It was something new — a feeling. Warm, comforting, but also anxious, and soaked with a sense of responsibility she couldn’t shake off.

— You okay, Mom? — Martin frowned, his voice edged with concern.

And Susan — that’s what her name was now, even though inside she was still him, Charlie Jackson, the same guy who, just a couple hours ago (if it was even still the same day), would’ve happily shoved Martin into a trash bin and posted it on his story — felt her lips tremble, felt a lump rising in her throat, making it hard to breathe. And the most absurd thing — her fingers curled into a fist not from anger, but from this urge… to protect. To not let anyone hurt him. To not let the world — cold and harsh like she used to be — break this fragile, awkward creature standing in front of her. A boy too kind for this life, too smart to not suffer for it every second.

— Yeah, yeah… just... must’ve eaten something weird this morning — she whispered, turning to the sink, pretending to wash a cup, but really just trying to hide the tears that were coming without warning. Not because she was scared or hurting — but because, for the first time in her life, she felt what it meant to be a woman who’s called Mom — and realize people expect everything from you, but never ask how you're holding up.

Martin nodded, mumbled something like — I’ll get going then — and disappeared into the hallway, leaving behind only the creak of the floorboards, the soft thud of the front door, and the faint slap — the sound of the notebook that slipped from his hands and hit the floor. But it wasn’t him who picked it up — it was her. Susan. Who wiped her hands on a faded kitchen towel and followed him out, catching herself thinking not about how to escape this body, but how to catch the bus, stop by Mrs. Hawkins, and not forget to buy milk — because yesterday Martin had poured cereal with water.

“Fuck, what the hell is happening to me?!” — she almost screamed inside her own head, pressing into the doorframe, gripping the physics notebook covered in margin scribbles. She could feel her boobs aching from the tight bra, her armpits damp with nervous sweat, her calves tensing up under the weight of a body that had lived through dozens of night shifts and not a single damn vacation. But that wasn’t the worst part — not the sticky kitchen, not the smell of stale coffee, not the sleep-deep exhaustion weighing her down. The worst part was that feeling — that cursed word — Mom. Because now, looking at Martin, she couldn’t just turn away. Couldn’t go back to pretending he was just some nerd, some loser, some “professor snot-face.” Now he was her son.