Twenty days.

  Twenty days waking up at the same point.

  Twenty days living the same moments.

  Twenty days trapped in the perfect, unbreakable cycle.

  At first, I didn’t notice. I just lived. But over time, the unease grew. If I came back… why does everything repeat?

  That’s when I realized. The answer lay in what I hadn’t done yet.

  The ring didn’t bring me back to relive my past as I wanted. It brought me back so I could do things differently.

  I was blind. I thought that by returning, I could follow the path I believed was right. But the ring wouldn’t allow me to make the same mistake.

  It demands change.

  Today, on the twenty-first day, I finally understand.

  The first obstacle isn’t my grandfather’s death. It isn’t moving to another city. It isn’t the loneliness that drowned me the first time.

  The first obstacle is me.

  And the first trial the ring has placed before me is clear.

  The challenge is my body.

  If everything follows as before, the pandemic will pass, life will return. Classes will resume. Socializing will begin.

  And me?

  I need to be ready to face the world that destroyed me once.

  If I don’t change…

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  The cycle will never end.

  I laughed. A dry, almost insane chuckle. If I died once and came back, then death isn’t a problem, right? If I push my body to the limit and it gives out, I’ll just… return. An endless cycle, an invisible burden placed on me by that demonic hand.

  If this ring wants me to change, then it’ll be by force.

  I ran my hand over my stomach, feeling the layer of fat I hated. In my other life, I lost weight with slow, painful sacrifices—one step at a time. Now, I had no time. I needed something fast, brutal.

  The ice diet.

  I remember reading about it in obscure forums—people swearing they lost insane amounts of weight in a week by eating nothing but ice. The cold would force the body to burn calories just to stay warm. But was it real or just desperation disguised as a solution?

  It didn’t matter.

  On the first day, it was easy. Hunger came, but I killed it with blocks of ice, feeling the crystals dissolve on my tongue. My body began to shiver, but I ignored it. My grandma noticed my lack of appetite and asked if I was okay.

  — I’m not hungry, Grandma.

  She didn’t insist.

  By the third day, my hands shook so much I could barely hold them steady. My vision blurred at times, and my heart seemed to beat slower. When I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, deep shadows had formed under my eyes.

  But… I was thinner. I felt it.

  It’s working.

  By the fifth day, walking became a struggle. My legs felt like lead. But when I looked in the mirror, something inside me smiled. My skin looked tighter, my stomach less prominent. The hunger was unbearable, but I laughed at it.

  — Is that all you’ve got? — I muttered into the void.

  On the sixth day, dizziness was constant. I could barely hear what my grandma was saying. My brother ran around the house, but the sounds felt distant, muffled. Every step was a battle, like walking through mud.

  But tomorrow would be the last day.

  In the early hours of the seventh day, I woke up drenched in cold sweat. My breathing was heavy, as if a weight pressed down on my chest. I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t respond.

  And then… darkness consumed me.

  I died.

  And I woke up.

  The same day. Again.

  This time, I didn’t laugh.

  This time, I understood.

  The ring wouldn’t let me die from stupidity. It wanted me to change—but it wouldn’t let me choose the wrong path.

  I dragged myself to the sink and drank water like I was dying of thirst. Because I was. I looked at my reflection, at that pale face, those dark circles, and then I laughed—a hollow, defeated laugh.

  — Okay, I get it… Let’s do it the right way.

  And for the first time… I truly accepted that I needed to change.