Ah Shit, Here We Go Again

A sharp sound rings through my ears. I groan in protest and flail my arm toward the nightstand. My eyes remain firmly closed as my hand fumbles over the surface, searching for my phone.

The relentless ringing pierces through my ears and I finally crack my eyes open. I scan the surface of the nightstand and grab my phone, silencing the alarm off.

When did I set an alarm? I glance at my lock screen and see the time.

Why on earth would I set an alarm for six in the morning?

A notification flashes at the top of the screen—an unknown number. I dismiss it with a swipe and toss the phone onto the bed, letting out a heavy sigh. I roll out of bed and hit the wood-tiled floors with a loud thud.

What the?

Pushing myself upright, I glance from the wooden floorboards to the unfamiliar bed.

Where am I?

This is not my bed.

And this is definitely not my room.

The phone vibrates with another message from the same unknown number. I look around the room and blink a few times, just to make sure that I wasn't still dreaming.

Whose room is this? The last thing I remember is falling asleep on my bed in the dorm. Is this a joke?

The phone vibrates for the third time. I snatch the phone from the bed and open the messages.

Welcome Emily

Since you hated my book so much and critiqued it, I'll allow you to make the changes to improve my book.

See if you can do better xxx

Book? What book?

I rub my eyes, shuffling toward the window in confusion. I peek through the curtains. The sun has just started to rise, but this is not London.

Where the hell am I?

"Catherine, are you up honey?" I slowly turn around and give a step back, stumbling against the window when I see a woman standing at the door. She comes closer, concern clear in her eyes. She places her hand on my forehead with a frown.

“Are you all right?” she asks, her British accent thick and familiar—Cockney, just like mine. I open my mouth to start asking questions, but she cuts me off with a cheerful laugh.

"Darling, I know you are probably stressed for the first day of your senior year. I had to drink something to calm my nerves. Do you want something to calm your nerves?" She laughs and squeezes my arm.

I can't tell if she is joking. She looks at me with a flashing smile.

"You'll be fine,” she says with a wink. I give her a half-smile and she turns to leave, shutting the door behind her.

Wait, come back. I wouldn't mind having something to calm my nerves.

And what is she going on about? School?

I'm in my second year of university.

I pace around the room and rub my eyes. The messages pop up in my head and I scoff. I survived high school and now I have to go back. That is a pretty shit deal. Hopefully, I will wake up from this nightmare before I get to school.

I yank open the closet doors and my jaw drops. A walk-in closet!

My disbelief wavers for a moment, giving way to admiration as I trail my fingers over color-coordinated rows of clothes. I turn to look back at the room.

The large room has a bed located in the middle. There is a large desk in one of the corners and the bathroom is across the room, on the opposite side of the closet.

I walk deeper into the walk-in closet, a smile spreading across my face. I have always dreamt of a walk-in closet. Oh, and the clothes are sorted according to color. This must be a dream.

"I'll drop you off at Allison's, but just for today since it is your last first day of high school. So, you have to finish up if you want don't want to be late." The woman calls from downstairs.

Allison, Allison, Allison. Why does the name sound so familiar?

I quickly grab black cargo pants and a beige blouse. I admire whomever this closet belongs to because they have impeccable fashion taste. These are the types of clothes I would wear if I had any money.

Once I have tucked the blouse into the high-waisted pants, I walk to the mirror.

As soon as I see my reflection, I drop the ankle boots with a loud thud.

"Bloody hell!" I nearly fall over as I see, what I can only assume to be, my reflection. Allison, Allison, Catherine, Ally and Kate . . . You've got to be joking. This can't be real.

I laugh in disbelief when I realize what had happened.

How is this even possible?

I am stuck in that stupid W*****d book I read last night.

And I'm not even the main character.

I thread my fingers through the long, dark brown hair. The eyes are almost the same color. This body is... impressive, to say the least. Fit, elegant, and, let’s be honest, wasted on me.

I run to the bathroom to finish up and laugh again when I see my reflection. I cannot believe it. I cannot wrap my head around it. How is this possible?

I pick my boots up and throw a pair of socks in one and a hairbrush in the other.

The woman, who I figured out had to be Catherine's mother (well done Sherlock), starts the car when I get in. She drives out of the driveway and I stare at the setting for a moment.

Now, this is something that I would classify as your typical small W*****d town. Trees surround the road with a house here and there. This is nothing like London.

I put my boots on and brush a bit too aggressively through the long hair. . This is exactly why I keep my hair in a bob—less effort, less pain.

"There are two muffins on the back seat along with the emergency make-up kit. Is everything okay, darling?" she asks, her voice tinted with worry.

I reach to the back and grab the make-up kit.

"No, everything is not fine," I huff out as I apply the foundation to my face, trying to avoid eye contact with myself in the mirror.

Catherine's mother keeps her eyes on the road as she pats my leg.

"You will survive, just breathe." She keeps her hand on my leg as I focus on my mascara. Luckily, Catherine and I are not too different. I'm grateful for the emergency kit.

By the time we pull into the driveway of Allison’s house, I’ve managed a half-decent look: bronze eyeshadow for a subtle pop and just enough blush to avoid looking like a ghost. I grab the muffins, lean over to give “Mum” an awkward hug and cheek peck, and step out of the car.

It’s her. The W*****d main character. You can smell the protagonist vibes wafting off her: soft, pale, unassuming, and deeply uninteresting. Credit where it’s due—the author really nailed the quintessential “reluctant mate of the brooding alpha” look.

I stop short, taking in her outfit with growing dismay. Is she... is she wearing pajamas to school? No, wait—on second glance, it’s worse. It’s the tragic fusion of a fifth-grade sleepover and a clearance rack catastrophe. No wonder she’s bullied.

She smiles at me and I notice her striking blue eyes (I didn't have a choice, okay, it was the author's choice). I cough out my laugh at the memory of all those y/n stories.

"Want a muffin?" I ask her while I hold the muffin out to her. She takes the muffin and mumbles a thanks.

We start to walk, but I stop her. I cannot allow her to go to school dressed like that. It would be a violation of some sort.

"What- what is wrong?" she asks, her voice sounding almost fake. Is that her real voice? Because if it is, this friendship ends here.

I sigh and close my eyes to compose myself. Why am I surprised? It is nothing new.

"You cannot go to school like this." I gesture to her whole outfit. "At least, let me help with this." I hand her my muffin and pull some strands of her pale brown hair from her low ponytail. I lean back to check if she looks more presentable. She still looks horrible, but her hair looks better.

I nod my head and we start to walk again.

She starts to blabber about something she did this holiday, but I ignore her, trying to figure out how this possibly could have happened.

How did this even happen?

And when I figure it out, Gwen is so dead.