I woke up to the buzz of my phone vibrating on the nightstand.
Not the soft jingle of an old ringtone. Not a school bell or my mom calling from the kitchen.
Just emails. Missed calls.
Real life.
And for a moment, I lay there — unmoving — staring at the ceiling, afraid to breathe.
Because I knew it now.
The past was behind me again.
The room wasn't painted blue anymore. The posters of cricket players were gone. The edges of the desk were smoother, unfamiliar.
I was back.
Older. Heavier. Realer.
And the silence I carried was not of a paused world now — it was the kind that fills you after a long cry.
I walked to the mirror.
The man stared back — stubble, tired eyes, faint lines on the forehead.
I didn't look like him anymore. The boy. But I remembered him.
Every word he said. Every mistake he made.
And every small, beautiful thing he once took for granted.
The first thing I did was call my dad.
His voice was groggy. "Hello? Everything okay?"
I closed my eyes and let the sound of him fill the room.
It had been months since we spoke — properly, at least.
"Yeah," I said. "I just wanted to check on you. And… say thank you."
He paused. "For what?"
"For everything you carried. Even the things I never saw."
The silence on his end wasn't cold. Just stunned.
Then he said softly, "You're scaring me, you know that?"
I smiled. "I know. I'm okay. Just… remembering stuff."
I opened the drawer next.
Old notebooks. Documents. A photo of Harish from years ago — tucked under some receipts.
We hadn't spoken in almost a year. After the fight.
After we both walked away, choosing pride over memory.
I stared at the photo for a long time.
Then picked up my phone and sent a text:
Still remember the smell of dosas and how bad your serve was.
I'm sorry I let the silence grow.
Call me when you can. If you want to.
No response. Not immediately. Maybe not ever.
But I had spoken. That mattered.
I made tea the way mom used to. No shortcuts. Let the leaves sit. A pinch more sugar than usual.
The mug warmed my hands.
And for a moment —
even without her —
it tasted like home.
By the time evening came, the sky outside looked full of dust and flame, the kind of sunset that makes you stop.
I stood on the balcony, watching people pass by — hurried, talking, living.
And I thought about what I'd been given.
Not a time machine.
Not a second life.
Just a chance to remember better.
And love more deeply the parts of me I'd left behind.
I didn't need to stay in yesterday anymore.
Because I'd brought the most important parts of it back with me.
And in the quiet that followed, I whispered to the wind:
"Thank you. I'll carry us both from here."