Second Verse, Same Song*
Blaine Anderson always thought regret would feel heavier. But here, standing on a crumbling stage in a run-down, off-Broadway theater, he felt weightless—like a helium balloon that had drifted too far from home. The applause was thin, the lights dimming. He stared out at the rows of empty seats and wondered how it all went so wrong. He was supposed to have *made it*. Instead, he was trapped in the chorus line of a show no one cared to see.
"I'm done," he whispered, tearing off his mic. Done chasing dreams that turned into nightmares. Done feeling too old to start over and too young to give up. "I wish I could just… go back and get it right."
A low, silvery laugh echoed around him, sending chills down his spine. Blaine turned slowly. Sitting cross-legged on the edge of the stage, fiddling with a glittering, golden pocket watch, was the tiniest creature he'd ever seen. She was no taller than his forearm, her skin shimmering like champagne, and her wings—a delicate blur of emerald and sapphire—beat in time with her tinkling laughter.
"Well, if that isn't the saddest song I've ever heard," she sighed, inspecting her tiny fingernails. "You want to go back? Start over, sing the first verse again?"
Blaine blinked, swallowing thickly. "Who—what—are you?"
The creature's smile was razor-sharp and mischievous. "I'm Calliope. A pixie. And it just so happens that time is my favorite instrument to play." She flicked her wrist, and the pocket watch vanished in a swirl of glittering dust. "I can give you what you want, Blaine Anderson. A second chance. You, young and fresh, back where it all began. But there's a catch."
"Of course there is," Blaine murmured, glancing down at his worn-out costume. What did he have left to lose?
"You're not just turning the clock back on yourself," Calliope continued, her eyes narrowing. "You'll alter your past—erase all the parts you didn't like. Change how the world saw you. But time doesn't like to be rewritten so easily. To smooth things over, I'll have to adjust a few… surrounding details."
"Like what?"
"Like your friends, your family. Your entire world, really," she said breezily. "But don't worry! They'll be reset too, as if they're reliving high school for the first time. A clean slate. No mistakes. And no one, except *you* will ever remember it was different."
Blaine felt his heart racing. Relive high school? Go back to when it all started? To Dalton Academy, the Warblers, the moment when he'd felt like he actually *belonged* somewhere? Could he do it better? Sing stronger, hold onto what really mattered?
"What do I have to do?" he whispered.
"Just say the word, darling, and I'll take care of the rest." Calliope fluttered closer, her wings stirring the air like a gentle breeze. "I'll rewrite your birth records, tweak your school history, erase the weight of your failures. You'll be Blaine Anderson, Dalton Academy freshman—again. And all you have to do… is jump."
Blaine took a deep breath, the dust of the theater settling around him like a shroud. He'd always been told not to make deals with magical creatures. But what was one more gamble? He nodded. "Do it."
Calliope's grin spread wide, impossibly so. She raised her hands, and the air around him shimmered. "Oh, I'll do more than that." She snapped her fingers, and the world *ripped*.
For a split second, Blaine was everywhere and nowhere. He felt himself shrinking, his limbs tightening and bones compressing as if the years were being sucked out of him. The stage vanished, replaced by a whirlpool of colors, a rushing wind, and a surge of *music*—melodies he hadn't heard in over a decade, voices that tugged at the deepest parts of his heart. He felt the world lurch, and then—
Blaine stumbled forward, his feet hitting solid ground with a jarring *thud*. He gasped, blinking against the sudden daylight, only to find himself skidding to a halt on a cobblestone path. His body—lean, lithe, and undeniably *young*—lurched awkwardly in unfamiliar shoes.
He looked down. A starched Dalton blazer, crisp navy and scarlet trim, wrapped snugly around his chest. He felt the silk of his tie brush against his throat. His hands were smoother, smaller, the calluses from years of piano playing and heartbreak all but gone. Blaine's heart hammered in his chest. He reached up, touching his cheek, his hair—tighter curls than he remembered, springy and boyish.
"I… I'm *back," he whispered, voice cracking with an adolescent waver. His eyes darted around, taking in the pristine, ivy-draped walls of *Dalton Academy*. The manicured lawns, the towering stone facade, and there—just up the sloping green hill—*the French windows.*
Blaine took a trembling step forward, the world settling around him like a forgotten melody suddenly remembered. His legs felt too light, his footsteps too quick, and everything smelled of fresh-cut grass and blooming flowers. And then he heard it—the unmistakable sound of voices in harmony. He froze, breath hitching.
The Warblers.
Their voices poured out from an open window high above, cascading down in a seamless, achingly perfect blend of tenor and bass. Blaine's pulse quickened, his throat tightening as if he might cry. He knew that song. He knew that *moment.* It was where everything had started.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze, staring up at the open window. He could see shadows moving inside, figures in matching blazers, swaying gently in time. He knew those boys. He knew that *life*.
Calliope's laughter echoed faintly behind him, like a whisper on the wind. "Enjoy your second verse, Blaine Anderson. Try not to mess it up this time."
Blaine swallowed, fingers trembling as he adjusted his blazer. He was back, a a bright-eyed *freshman* again, ready to walk through Dalton's doors as if he'd never left. His birth records altered, his past rewritten, and somewhere out there, the people who had loved and broken him were just as young, just as uncertain, as he was now.
A second chance.
And with the Warblers' perfect harmony wrapping around him, Blaine took his first step toward the future he had wished for—wondering if he'd ever dare wish for more.
