I Lived the Same Day for 100 Years

I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of birdsong. Again.

The same sun filtered through the same curtains. The same song played on the radio: “Golden Days” by The Morning Haze.

I brushed my teeth, feeling déjà vu gnawing at my bones. I dressed. I walked downstairs. My neighbor waved and said the same thing she always did:

“Beautiful day, isn’t it, Eli?”

I smiled and nodded.

It was a beautiful day. Just like it had been for the last hundred years.

At first, I thought it was a dream. Then I believed it was a curse. I’ve gone through all five stages of grief—more than once. Acceptance, though? That one was the hardest. Because how do you accept that time itself has abandoned you?

It all began on March 14th, a Wednesday. I was 27 years old. I had just gotten a job offer at a publishing firm. I told my best friend Claire we’d celebrate that night. She never made it. A car crash took her life before sundown.

I cried. I broke things. I begged whatever god was listening to let me redo the day.

And then—I woke up.

On March 14th. Again.

At first, I was overjoyed. A second chance to save her. I tried texting. Calling. Even following her to intercept the accident.

I failed.

The next day came—March 14th. Again.

No matter what I did, I couldn’t save her. And no matter what I did after 11:58 p.m., everything reset. Houses rebuilt. Broken glass unbroken. Even wounds healed. But Claire always died. Every time.

Eventually, I gave up trying to save her. That broke me more than losing her the first time.

So I experimented with chaos.

I robbed banks.

I lit things on fire.

I climbed rooftops and jumped just to see if I could die.

Spoiler: I couldn’t.

When the clock struck midnight, I was whole again. Clean clothes. Unbruised skin. The same sun, the same coffee, the same goddamn Golden Days song on the radio.

I kept track, carving each repeat into the inside of my bedroom wall. But the wall reset too. So I carved it into myself.

My left arm holds 100 tiny marks. One for each year.

Eventually, I stopped trying. Not out of peace—but exhaustion.

I tried learning new skills. I mastered piano, painting, cooking, languages. But what’s the point, when no one remembers?

People walk by me like I’m a background character. I could tell someone I’ve lived a century in one day, and they’d just blink and ask if I want sugar in my coffee.

Then today—March 14th, Year 100—something changed.

A girl on the bus looked me dead in the eyes and said,

“Hey. Do you feel stuck too?”

My heart stopped.

She wore a red scarf. I’d never seen her before—not in a hundred years.

“What did you say?” I asked, barely breathing.

She smiled like she’d been waiting just as long.

“I’ve been stuck in Tuesday since 1983,” she said. “Been riding this bus every day hoping to find someone else like me.”

I sat next to her, unable to speak.

Finally, I wasn’t alone.

We didn’t talk much. We didn’t have to. We just sat in silence, breathing the same stale bus air, sharing the quiet truth between us.

She got off three stops later, turned to me, and whispered,

“Maybe next time we’ll wake up somewhere new.”

I didn’t know what that meant—until now.

It’s March 15th.

Claire is gone, but this time... she stayed gone. And for once, I don't feel crushed.

I woke up to the smell of rain and no song playing on the radio. My neighbor didn’t wave. She wasn’t even outside.

Everything feels off, like a painting smudged in the corners.

But I’m free.

After 100 years in one day, I’m finally moving forward.

And now, I wonder...

How many others are still trapped in yesterday?