The house was finally quiet.
Dinner had been awkward—his mom watching him with teary eyes, his dad suspiciously silent, his sister smirking whenever he squeaked out a word. Mikey wouldn’t stop poking him under the table and whispering, “Bro, you’re short now.”
But at last, they’d all gone about their business. His mom tucked herself in with a book, his dad buried in the TV, and Mikey had run off to his own room, giggling about how he “totally won the sibling lottery.”
Jon shut his door. Locked it.
And then turned to face the mirror.
The boy staring back was no stranger anymore.
Eleven years old. Skinny limbs, soft face, the faint shadow of freckles. He was wearing Mikey’s old basketball shorts and a T-shirt that sagged on his frame, because nothing else in the house fit him. Even Mikey was taller—by half an inch. That stung.
He tugged at the shirt hem, watching it droop down almost to his knees. Pathetic.
The stone was on his desk, the box half-open as if it were daring him. He reached for it, holding the cool, metallic-red surface against his palm.
He knew what he had to do.
At first, he’d thought the only solution was to fix this. Wish himself back to sixteen, pretend today had never happened, lock the box away forever.
But staring at his reflection, he realized… why?
What was he going back to?
One friend—Karyn—and even that friendship was mostly him following her lead. School hallways where he walked invisible. Girls who laughed or just didn’t notice him. Nights staring at the ceiling wishing he could be someone else.
And now he had the chance.
The younger him—annoying little brat that he was—hadn’t been wrong. Jon had let himself go. At sixteen, he wasn’t the happy, bright-eyed kid he used to be. He was bitter. Tired.
But he didn’t have to be.
His grip tightened around the stone. His reflection’s eyes shone with a strange spark—fear and excitement tangled together.
He took a breath. “I wish… I have been eleven all this time. That this is normal. That I was born eleven years ago, and no one thinks I suddenly became eleven. I’m just eleven years old, who grew up normally to this.”
The stone went hot, burning almost painfully in his palm. He shut his eyes. The world flipped sideways.
When he opened them, he gasped.
His room wasn’t the same.
Gone was the teenager’s clutter of headphones, unwashed clothes, and half-finished homework. The space around him exploded with life.
Posters of basketball players and skate tricks plastered the walls. Trophies lined the shelf—track medals, science fair ribbons, even a shiny gold plaque for MVP. A Nerf gun leaned against the bed, and the laundry basket overflowed with jerseys and sneakers.
It was the room of a kid who lived.
Jon’s heart leapt. He spun in place, taking it all in, and then his eyes landed on the photos pinned to the corkboard.
Him.
But not the awkward loner version. A smiling kid, arms around friends, at parks, in jerseys, holding up pizza at sleepovers. He looked… happy. Surrounded. Wanted.
A grin tugged at his lips. “It worked.”
But he wasn’t done. Not yet.
He clutched the stone again. “I wish… I was always going to have a fun and happy life.”
The heat pulsed harder this time, crawling up his arm, flooding into his chest. Memories surged. He staggered, clutching his head.
Flashes.
Birthday parties packed with friends. Teachers praising him for “natural talent.” Games won with lucky breaks. Laughing so hard soda sprayed out of his nose.
Everywhere he went in those new memories, he was the kid people liked. The lucky one. The golden boy.
When the wave settled, he was grinning without realizing it. His cheeks hurt from smiling so wide.
But something still gnawed at him.
He looked again at the corkboard, at the goofy faces of his friends. The memories were there, but he wasn’t. Not really. Inside, he was still Jon—sixteen, jaded, skeptical. He could see the happy kid’s life, but he couldn’t feel it.
Not yet.
He lifted the stone one last time. His voice shook. “I wish… I had the personality of the eleven-year-old Jonny I now am. I wish I was a happy, likeable, social person who just wants to have fun, like the eleven-year-old I’m supposed to be.”
The stone flared.
For a terrifying second, his whole world went white.
Then it snapped back.
And Jonny—he realized that’s who he was now—rocked back on his heels, grinning like he’d just scored the winning point. The nervous weight in his chest was gone. No more second-guessing. No more shadows of failure. Just excitement.
He laughed out loud, rocking on his legs like he couldn’t keep still. “Man, this is awesome!”
The mirror showed him a kid bouncing on the balls of his feet, hair falling in his eyes, smile wide and carefree. He gave himself a little wink. “Looking good, Jonny.”
He pocketed the stone, not even thinking twice about hiding it. Who cared? Life was good now.
All he wanted was to do something fun.
He skipped to his door, literally skipped, his legs light as springs. The thought of books, school, or brooding over the past didn’t even cross his mind. Nope. Right now, he wanted one thing.
“Hey, Mikey!” he called down the hall, voice cracking with playful energy. “Wanna shoot some hoops?”
Because of course Mikey would play. Mikey always did. And Jonny always won.
