What do you do when you're given a second chance at life? *** Age 15: Oliver Sallow is shipped to the tiny town of Blissby to live with a new foster family. Finn O'Connell is captain of the football team. Neither of them knows much about the other except for one thing: they have absolutely nothing in common. Age 17: Oliver finds Finn having a panic attack in the library bathroom. They still have nothing in common. They fall in love all the same. Age 18: Oliver breaks up with Finn. Age 18.5: Oliver dies in a motorcycle accident. Six minutes and twenty-four seconds later, he wakes up again to be offered a deal: he will get to spend another twelve months as a guardian angel, neither fully dead nor completely alive. The catch: the person he is assigned to help is none other than Finn O'Connell. Age 19: Two boys, fourteen months of history, and a promise: this time, there can be no falling back in love. (Cover art by @slimmwrites)

A few months ago, I bought a mug with gold gilt. On sale. Not a gift either nor because of an occasion to remember by it. Just plain, pretty mug for 15PLN. I drank my coffee from it since. I spat loose tea leaves into it. It never felt particularly significant. An ordinary object. Only when I lost it, I realised its true value. I sat comfortably at my desk one evening. Looking at my phone, I reached to take my song-text notebook. Trivial situation. My clumsy fingers were unable to avoid the mug. They allowed it to topple over, to slip from the desktop. Even though I did not see the split-second occurrence, I felt the pressure of unease. My head painted the trajectory of the fall on its own, the shattering, spillage. The loss. For a millisecond I still had hope, that I would be able to catch the mug, that I would be able to avoid what was about to happen. But I knew I was headed for failure. I don't have any superpowers. I only scalded my fingers. I looked at the mug's new shape for a long while, at the shattered pieces. At the spilling liquid. Our adventure came to an end. Irrevocably. I won't be drinking coffee from it anymore, nor spit tea leaves into it. Well. I shouldn't be sad, it was just a regular mug, just like thousands of others. I grew to like it, it kept me company throughout hundreds of warm drinks. I lost it. I hate this feeling the most. In the moment when I am losing something, I stop in my tracks, I hold my breath. It is always a very intense moment. A short one, but one that gives me the tight unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The feeling of loss is always accompanied by hope. Silly and naïve. Making me believe so strongly, that I can make it. That I will still be able to catch the mug mid-flight. When the feeling is entering the body, crawling into me I realise, how important it was to me. Whether it's Nivan or a stupid mug with gold gilt.