Déjà vu.

def: The phenomenon of feeling as though one has lived through the present situation before. 

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Jacob stared at the baseball glove over his hand. He looked up at the field in front of him. 

The summer sun bore down on the dusty diamond, its light casting long shadows across the grass. The chatter of kids echoed around him, blending with the familiar thwack of a bat meeting a ball. He flexed his fingers around the worn leather seams of the glove, the texture pressing into his skin like a memory resurfacing from deep within his subconscious.

This had happened before. 

Am I in a dream?

The way Danny Winters stood at home plate, smirking like he always did. The way Coach Thompson barked orders from the dugout. Even the way the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the faint smell of hot dogs from the concession stand. It was the same—every single detail.

"Jacob, you alright?" Danny's voice broke through his thoughts.

Jacob blinked, startled. "Uh... yeah. Just zoned out."

"Don't blow it again," Danny teased, tossing his bat in the air before catching it. "We need the out this time."

Again.

The city loomed behind him, the high walls where most of them lived. Here was a small patch of heaven and grass. The clouds loomed up. It was always cloudy. 

Was it ever sunny here? He tried to think of the last time it had been sunny. 

"Jacob, heads up!" Danny Winters called from center field.

Jacob turned, his heart racing. He'd been here before—every detail matched the memory etched into his brain. The kids shouting from the dugout. The faint smell of hot dogs wafting from the snack stand. Even Danny's smirk as he adjusted his cap.

The ball was flying toward him now, a lazy arc slicing through the bright blue sky. He knew what would happen next. He would reach up to catch it, and the ball would glance off his glove, skimming past his fingers. The batter would round the bases, and Coach Thompson would throw his hat to the ground in frustration.

But Jacob didn't move.

Not this time.

The ball hung in the air, impossibly slow, as though time itself had paused to mock him. His heart pounded in his chest. Was this the moment where it all reset again?

He clenched his glove tighter.

"Catch it!" Danny shouted.

Jacob flinched but stayed frozen, his mind spinning. The déjà vu wasn't just a nagging feeling anymore—it was certainty. He'd lived this exact moment dozens of times, and no matter what he did, it always reset. The ball. The error. The endless loop.

But then, the ball did something different.

It stopped.

Mid-air, right above Jacob's head, the ball froze as though suspended by invisible strings. The chatter from the field went silent. Even Danny's voice disappeared.

Jacob took a shaky step forward, staring up at the impossible sight. Around him, the world began to shimmer, faint ripples spreading through the air like heat waves. He turned to the dugout, but everyone was frozen in place—Coach, the players, the parents in the stands—all of them locked in eerie stillness.

"What the hell..." Jacob whispered, his voice echoing unnaturally.

He blinked.

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Jacob stared at the baseball glove over his hand. He looked up at the field in front of him.

 The summer sun bore down on the dusty diamond, its light casting long shadows across the grass. The chatter of kids echoed around him, blending with the familiar thwack of a bat meeting a ball. He flexed his fingers around the worn leather seams of the glove, the texture pressing into his skin like a memory resurfacing from deep within his subconscious.

Wait...

"Jacob, you alright?" Danny's voice broke through his thoughts.

Jacob glanced to the right. There he was the same guy, same question same look on his face. 

Didn't we just do this?

"What the hell?" He said out loud, his voice rising.

Jacob took another step back. 

Danny's face wrinkled in concern. "Jacob--" 

A flash ran across his eyes as the other boy straightened.

"Are you all right, Jacob?" The voice, the mannerisms were all wrong.

This isn't real. The thought settled in Jacob's mind with terrifying clarity. Nausea welled up inside of him.

"I asked you a question," Danny said, stepping closer. His smirk was gone now, replaced with a sharp intensity that made Jacob's skin crawl.

Everyone around him was silent. Unmoving all staring as if they'd all been simultaneously turned off. 

Except his best friend Danny. "Come with me, Jacob," he said. "I can help."

"You can? What the hell is going on?!" Jacob yelled, his voice cracking.

Danny—or the thing in Danny's place—took another step forward, holding his arms up, a smile plastered across his face. It looked unnatural for a kid who Jacob was so used to seeing smirking. " The reset imminent. Surrender control, and the loop will resume uninterrupted."

"The loop?"

Jacob looked at the field and then the city. He'd never been anywhere but here. Yet he'd read there was a whole world out. He'd never actually seen the sun... and yet he knew it existed.

He turned and fled into the city. Behind him the unnatural silence followed.

The entrance into the city was devoid of walking traffic. Jacob wondered briefly if the city was shut down. He kept running, he had to find someone. Anyone who was awake. There had to be at least one other person here. 

He had to find---

The car, a black sedan, came out of nowhere and Jacob never saw it. The impact drove his head into the side of the brick building. His blood splattered the pavement.

The silence gave way to the deafening sounds of the city.

Screams interrupted.

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Jacob stared at the baseball glove over his hand. He looked up at the field in front of him. 

The summer sun bore down on the dusty diamond, its light casting long shadows across the grass. The chatter of kids echoed around him, blending with the familiar thwack of a bat meeting a ball. He flexed his fingers around the worn leather seams of the glove, the texture pressing into his skin like a memory resurfacing from deep within his subconscious.

This had happened before. 

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Jacob stared at the baseball glove over his hand. He looked up at the field in front of him.

Jacob gripped the baseball glove tighter, his knuckles whitening. The field was loud—voices echoing, laughter carrying across the diamond. It was almost too loud, like the volume had been turned up too high. He flinched as the ball soared into the air, his body reacting instinctively.

"Catch it, Jacob!" Danny shouted, his voice booming above the din.

Time slowed. The ball floated downward, spiraling toward his outstretched glove. Jacob could hear every individual sound now: the distant hum of the concession stand fryer, the creak of the bleachers as parents shifted, the faint whistle of the wind.

Thud.

The ball smacked into his glove, but instead of relief, dread sank into Jacob's chest like a stone. Something felt wrong, even though he'd done it right this time. The ball slipped from his glove.

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Later, after the game, Jacob found himself walking home, the empty streets a stark contrast to the overwhelming noise of the field. The only sound was the rhythmic crunch of his sneakers against gravel. Even the city seemed quieter than it should've been, as though it, too, had reset with him.

When the man passed him—he pressed the card into his hand—it was almost too fast to process. The man moved like a blur, there and gone in a heartbeat, the touch of the card against Jacob's palm the only proof he'd been there at all. Jacob stood in the street, the world around him holding its breath again.

He opened the card, and the faint sound of rustling paper broke the oppressive stillness. The words etched on it were simple but heavy, the weight of them pressing down on Jacob's chest:

Déjà vu is when a major reset occurs. If you want to know where you got that scar—go practice baseball today at the field. We're like you. Awake.

For a moment, Jacob swore the air itself shimmered. He shoved the card into his pocket and bolted, the sharp clatter of his footsteps slicing through the silence. He didn't know where he was running, only that he needed to keep moving before the world decided to freeze again.