Rewritten Destiny

Ethan's breath was shallow, each inhale a struggle. The room around him felt too white, too clean, the sterile air pressing in from all sides. Cancer had drained him of everything—his body was a shell, fragile and broken. He'd known the end was coming, but it didn't make it any easier. The beeping of the machines was the only sound that kept him tethered to reality, until it stopped.

And then… nothing.

When Ethan opened his eyes again, it was as if the world had shifted on its axis. His lungs were suddenly full of air—real, fresh air. His body, once weak and frail, now felt full of energy, like he had been reborn. He gasped, his hands gripping the edge of a desk as he tried to orient himself. The sound of traffic, voices, and distant honking of cars reached his ears, far too loud and overwhelming. He wasn't in a hospital anymore.

What was going on?

Ethan jumped to his feet, a rush of panic flooding through him. His legs, sturdy and unshaken, carried him to a cracked mirror on the wall. He stared into it, his heart thudding in his chest. The face that looked back at him wasn't his. It was the face of a younger Black teenager, with deep brown eyes—his eyes, but not his face. His stomach dropped. His breath caught in his throat. He wasn't dreaming. This wasn't some sick joke.

He was in someone else's body.

Ethan stumbled back, his mind a whirl of confusion. The memories that weren't his own flooded in like a tidal wave—thoughts, feelings, experiences of a struggling writer who had barely gotten by in life. The name that flashed through his mind was Ethan Collins, a name that wasn't his, but it felt strangely familiar. He had no idea how it all worked—how he had ended up here, in a different life, a different world—but there was no mistaking it. His past life was gone. This new world, with its modern streets, unfamiliar faces, and strange technology, was his now.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to make sense of the chaos in his mind. Nothing fit. Nothing made sense. The cluttered desk before him was filled with papers, scribbled notes of half-finished stories, rejection letters that felt all too familiar. A failing writer, barely scraping by, struggling with what felt like a lost cause. The weight of the situation was too much for him to take in all at once. His hands trembled as he reached for a chair, his body still shaking from the shock.

Ethan sat down slowly, his heart hammering in his chest. His mind was reeling. He couldn't even remember how he had ended up here—how had he gone from fighting for his life to suddenly waking up in a completely different one?

He didn't know what to do. Didn't know where to begin.

His eyes wandered over the papers scattered across the desk, each one an unfinished story. His fingers grazed the edges of one. The novels in this world… they were all the same. Shallow, predictable, poorly written, but beloved by everyone here. People adored them, praised them like they were the greatest works of literature ever written.

The irony was suffocating.

Ethan's mind swirled with possibilities. He had the knowledge, the stories, the great works from his past life, the ones that had defined the literary world. He could change this—he could bring something fresh, something real—but how? Where would he even begin? This wasn't his world, and everything felt like it was falling apart in his head.

His hands shook more now, the panic rising again as he tried to steady himself. He didn't know how to move forward. He didn't know what he was doing or where he was going. All he knew was that he had somehow been given a second chance, and this new world was waiting for him to make something of it.

With a shaky breath, he picked up a pen from the desk. It was heavier than it should have been. He stared at the blank page in front of him, the weight of everything pressing down on his shoulders. He didn't know how he was going to make it, but he had to try. The world here was his to shape, but it was overwhelming, terrifying.

Still, with a steady hand, he wrote the first word. The story was starting, and there was no turning back.