I'm Not a Regressor, Chapter 1: The Unexpected Rewind
The stale air hung heavy with the scent of burnt coffee and desperation. My alarm clock – a relic from a bygone era, mocking me with its cheerful chime – screamed 6:00 AM. Another day, another soul-crushing commute. Another day of pretending I understood my boss's cryptic pronouncements about "synergistic growth opportunities." I slammed the snooze button, a familiar ritual that did little to soothe my frayed nerves.
This wasn't just another Monday. This was the Monday. The Monday that, according to countless internet forums and whispered anxieties among my colleagues, was supposed to be… different. The Monday where the Regressors returned.
For those unfamiliar, Regressors are individuals who inexplicably rewind time. Not a few seconds, not a few hours, but sometimes years, even decades. They'd relive past events, often with the explicit goal of altering their trajectory – avoiding mistakes, seizing opportunities, achieving… something better.
I, however, was decidedly not a Regressor. I was just… me. A mid-level marketing manager clinging to the precipice of burnout, fueled by lukewarm coffee and the increasingly desperate hope of a lottery win.
What are the signs of being a Regressor?
This question, burning in the minds of many, also burned in mine. The internet, a chaotic maelstrom of misinformation and half-baked theories, offered little clarity. Some claimed sudden, vivid déjà vu was a telltale sign. Others pointed to unexplained knowledge of future events, a kind of precognitive intuition. Still others swore that Regressors experienced subtle shifts in their surroundings – a misplaced object, a slightly altered conversation, a flicker in the familiar.
I'd experienced none of these things… or so I thought. My déjà vu was limited to the ever-repeating cycle of my mundane existence. My knowledge of the future was confined to the dread of another pointless meeting. And any changes in my surroundings were likely due to my own general clumsiness.
How do Regressors know they've regressed?
This was perhaps the most unsettling question. Many accounts described a jarring sense of dislocation, a feeling of being ripped from one timeline and violently thrust into another. Some reported physical symptoms like nausea or disorientation. Others spoke of mental anguish, a profound sense of unease that permeated every fiber of their being.
For me, the morning started as usual – with the aforementioned alarm clock and the subsequent struggle to coax myself out of bed. No jarring sensations, no profound existential dread. Just the usual Monday morning blues, amplified by the impending doom of the Regressor phenomenon.
Can anyone become a Regressor?
The prevailing theory, based on the scarce and often contradictory evidence, suggested that Regression was not a choice, but a random occurrence. Some hypothesized a genetic predisposition, while others blamed an unknown environmental trigger. The scientific community, unsurprisingly, remained largely skeptical.
My complete lack of any Regressor-related symptoms was, at least to me, conclusive proof that I wasn't one. I was just a regular, unremarkable person caught in the crosshairs of a bizarre, city-wide phenomenon. Or so I told myself as I forced down a burnt piece of toast and headed out the door.
The city was eerily quiet. Usually, this time of day was a cacophony of car horns, shouting vendors, and the general urban din. But today, an unsettling stillness hung in the air. A premonition settled in my stomach, a knot of anxiety so tight it made breathing difficult. Maybe, just maybe, something was different. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe… I was a Regressor after all. The day, however, was far from over, and the truth remained elusive.
