Lance slumped in his cafeteria chair, exhaustion pressing heavily on his shoulders. Once again, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their steady drone as relentless as the loops that trapped him. He stared at the congealing meatloaf on his tray: a grey-brown slab coated in viscous gravy that had long since lost any culinary appeal. It was the same every time, taunting him as the silent herald of another failed iteration.


    He had tried counting how many attempts he’d endured—twenty, thirty, more—but the numbers blurred, each reset grinding his nerves down a little further. He hadn’t thought it possible to hate a cafeteria meal with such intensity, yet here he was, despising it not for its taste but for what it represented: stagnation, failure, and an inescapable temporal trap.


    With a bitter laugh, he reached out, grabbed the slab of meatloaf in his bare hand, and hurled it across the room. It splattered against the wall with a muted thwack, sending gravy droplets spiraling onto a cluster of horrified onlookers. Gasps and snickers rose around him. He didn’t care. None of them would remember this moment soon enough. The loop would rewind, and they’d be back at their starting positions—clean trays, intact dignity, no memory of Lance’s meltdown.


    A moment later, the familiar pressure built behind his eyes, the world smeared like wet paint, and then—


    He was back in line, staring at that damned meatloaf again.


    This time, he refused to pick up a tray. Instead, he burst through the double doors and ran. His sneakers slapped against the pavement as he sprinted away from Greylock’s manicured lawns and Gothic buildings. He passed the old oak trees lining University Drive, the cozy coffee shops, and the corner bookstore, pushing himself harder than ever. His lungs burned, legs screamed, but he pressed on, desperate to outrun the loop’s invisible perimeter.


    About a quarter mile down Winchester Road, reality snapped like a rubber band. The world twisted, and he found himself back at the cafeteria’s entrance, the clock unchanged, the meal unchosen. He could almost taste the asphalt in his throat, yet his body stood still, trapped again.


    After a few more resets, darker thoughts crept into his mind. What if he just stepped in front of a car to force reality’s hand? The idea sickened him. He scoured his conscience and refused to entertain it. He wasn’t that desperate. Not yet. Instead, he experimented with “executions” of the meatloaf: carving it into tiny sculptures, mashing it to pulp, flushing chunks down the toilet. No effect. Back he came.


    He tried playing hero again. Marching straight up to the letterman-jacketed harasser, Lance puffed out his chest and demanded the guy back off from Maya. The reward? A swift punch that rattled his teeth and sprawled him across sticky linoleum. Reset.


    Authority attempts followed. He once again tried to grab campus security before the incident began. He alerted a passing professor, the cafeteria manager, even Sophie the RA—though she was too perplexed by his frantic warning to act decisively. Each time, the harassment happened anyway, leaving Maya embarrassed and upset. Reset.


    He then tried subtle manipulation. Drawing on intimate details from quick conversations in failed loops, he approached Maya with carefully chosen compliments and references to her interests. She stared at him in horror. How did he know so much about her already? She packed up and left, unnerved, and the event happened outside, or time simply looped again, unimpressed by his efforts. Reset.


    As attempts piled up, Lance’s sense of self began to fray. He felt like a lab rat in a twisted experiment, trying every possible combination. He began muttering to himself during resets, reciting the exact time and place where each event would occur, predicting when a girl at the window table would drop her fork (12:17 PM, every time) and when someone’s phone alarm would ring with “Sweet Caroline” (12:22 PM, no fail). He saw patterns everywhere, but none that broke the cycle.


    He sat through loops doing nothing, just observing. He let the meatloaf sit untouched and watched as the harassment unfolded like clockwork. Every detail repeated: Maya’s quiet tension, the guy’s entitled grin, the surrounding students too absorbed in their own conversations to intervene. With each passive iteration, Lance’s eyes sharpened, and something he’d overlooked finally became clear.


    Maya wasn’t just alone. She was isolated. In a room full of chatter and laughter, she stood out as a single figure, separated from the warmth of community. The harasser targeted her because isolation offered no buffer, no friendly faces to shut him down. Lance remembered Dr. Whitlock’s musings on observation and influence. Maybe brute force, authority, or trickery wouldn’t solve this. It required a different touch—something more fundamental, more human.


    In the next loop, he pulled out his phone and texted Jasper, the lanky economics classmate with boundless energy.


    “Hey, working on some digital art stuff in the cafeteria. Want to check it out?”


    He sent the message as soon as the loop began, giving Jasper plenty of time to show up before the critical moment. Then Lance surveyed the room, noticing a couple of familiar faces from his Digital Art Foundations class: Ashley and Michael, who sometimes hung out together and had admired Maya’s technique during critiques. In previous loops, he’d ignored them in his single-minded focus, but now he saw an opportunity.


    He grabbed his tray—why not eat this time?—and hurried to claim a table near Maya’s usual spot but not too close. His heart thumped, not from fear, but from anticipation. He opened his tablet and started working on a simple digital sketch, layering colors and adjusting brush settings. He poured genuine effort into it, letting himself relax for the first time in countless tries. This wasn’t a performance; it was real work, something he cared about. Maybe that authenticity would draw others in.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Spotting Ashley and Michael passing by, he raised a hand. “Hey! We had Mendez’s class together, right? Check this out—I’m trying a new lighting technique I learned last night.” He tilted the tablet to show them. Bright, subtle highlights danced along the edges of a character’s face on-screen.


    Ashley paused, intrigued. “Oh, cool. That soft-glow effect—did you use the gradient mapping tool for that?” She motioned Michael closer.


    Michael peered over Lance’s shoulder, nodding thoughtfully. “Neat. I tried something similar last semester, but I could never get the shadows right.”


    They lingered, chatting about brush settings, Photoshop shortcuts, and the pros and cons of different styluses. Their presence formed a small cluster of conversation, friendly and open. Lance kept glancing at the door. The harasser would arrive soon, but not yet.


    His phone buzzed. Jasper: “On my way! Hope you’re ready for my expert critiques, haha.” Lance grinned. He could practically hear Jasper’s hyperactive voice through the text.


    Minutes later, Jasper burst in, his orange hoodie impossible to miss. “Dude!” he called, weaving around tables. “This is what you get up to outside of econ lectures, huh? Didn’t know you were into digital art.” He pulled up a chair—nearly tipping it over with his enthusiasm—and leaned in to inspect Lance’s tablet. “Whoa, these colors look pro. How’d you learn that?”


    Before Lance could answer, Ashley, who had been admiring the artwork, glanced up. Her eyes landed on Maya, a few tables away. “Maya! Over here!” she called, waving her over. “You’ve got to see what Lance is doing with these highlights—it’s right up your alley!”


    Lance’s pulse quickened. Maya looked up from her laptop, eyebrows raised. The earlier iterations had taught him that approaching her directly felt forced. But now, Maya saw a small group of classmates—familiar faces, shared interests—forming a natural hub of conversation. She hesitated a moment, then, curiosity winning out, closed her laptop and joined them.


    “Show me?” she asked, her voice calm but carrying the quiet intensity Lance had come to admire in class critiques.


    “Sure,” Lance replied casually. “I’ve been experimenting with low-intensity fill layers and overlay modes. You can get these subtle variations in hue without losing detail.”


    Maya leaned in, her blue-streaked hair falling forward, eyes scanning the screen. Ashley chimed in about color theory, Michael mentioned a recent tutorial he’d watched, and Jasper contributed a nonstop flow of barely related commentary. They laughed, teased each other, traded tips and triumphs. The group formed a protective bubble of camaraderie that Lance hadn’t managed to create in any prior attempt.


    Right on schedule, the letterman-jacketed guy entered, his stride just as confident as before. Lance watched carefully, heart in his throat. The man approached their cluster, but there was no natural opening now—Maya wasn’t isolated, not an easy target. Instead of sitting alone, she was flanked by friends, engrossed in conversation. The harasser slowed, looking for a moment to interrupt, but their body language offered no foothold. He hovered awkwardly, then shrugged and moved on, searching for an easier mark.


    Lance expected the sudden yank backward, the smear of colors, the twist of reality. But it never came. Time ticked forward, steady and true. Students finished their meals. The cafeteria buzzed normally. No reset.


    He glanced at the wall clock: 12:47 PM. They had broken past the old reset thresholds, leaving noon behind. A new future stretched before him, unwound from the vicious cycle. Relief and victory swelled in his chest, making his eyes sting. He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.


    The conversation drifted to other topics—campus clubs, digital art exhibitions, music playlists to paint by. Maya shared her own methods for blending colors, describing how she layered textures to create atmosphere. She was relaxed, leaning back in her chair, tapping her stylus thoughtfully. The tension Lance had seen in previous loops—her guarded posture, the wary glances—was absent now. She belonged to this social circle as naturally as anyone else.


    As the group prepared to leave for afternoon classes, Maya lingered. “Hey, Lance,” she said softly so the others didn’t notice. “Those techniques you showed are great. Could I get your number? Maybe we can share references or critique each other’s WIPs?”


    Lance swallowed, remembering the harasser’s attempts to get her number. He’d spent endless loops trying to protect her, never guessing he’d end up with her contact info given freely and happily. The universe had a sense of irony, he supposed.


    “Sure,” he managed, reading off his digits as she typed them into her phone. A moment later, his phone buzzed with a new message: “It’s Maya :)”


    He checked the timestamp: 1:17 PM. He’d never seen this number before, not in all the failed cycles. It felt like a victory banner, proof he had finally moved forward in time rather than snapping back.


    They parted ways with easy smiles and casual waves. Lance watched Maya walk off to her next class, the sunlight catching her hair as she passed beneath the tall windows. Ashley, Michael, and Jasper dispersed too, each heading into the afternoon’s routines. The world moved forward naturally, a soft current of unbroken time.


    Standing alone now at the edge of the cafeteria, Lance reflected on the lessons learned. He had tried force, authority, manipulation, and self-sacrifice. None had worked. Only by creating a welcoming space—by weaving community and genuine connection—had he broken the loop. The problem hadn’t required a hero in shining armor, just a group of equals enjoying each other’s company, making it impossible for bullying to find a foothold.


    He wondered briefly if Maya suspected something, if some part of her sensed the gravity of what had occurred. Probably not—he doubted anyone but him retained memories of the loops. Yet the knowing look she’d given him before leaving suggested she recognized some meaningful shift. Even if she didn’t understand time loops, she knew this moment mattered.


    Outside, the clock tower’s four faces aligned at last, each showing the same time—a unified chorus after countless discordant solos. The sunlight angled through the Gothic arches, illuminating a campus that continued in its own rhythm. For once, Lance felt truly anchored in that rhythm rather than fighting it.


    He shouldered his bag and stepped out into the afternoon, savoring the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes and the rustle of wind in the oak leaves. Every sensation was fresh and meaningful. He had conquered the loop not by bending time to his will, but by understanding what time’s strange lessons wanted to show him.


    With each un-looped step, he embraced the moving current of time.