The light was colder.
Not the warm, golden haze of the past few days — this was pale, sharp, real. It streamed through the window and scattered on my bedsheet like truth.
I opened my eyes slowly. For a second, I held on to the silence.
Then I sat up.
My heart thudded.
The wall was white. Not blue.
The desk — my old desk — gone. Replaced by a sleek worktable with a dying office laptop on it. A stack of unopened bills sat beside it.
My hand reached out, trembling. The skin — rougher. Familiar scars returned. The years, the wear.
I was back.
It hit me all at once.
The weight of age.
The ache in my shoulder.
The smell of city smoke through the window.
I walked across the room in a daze. My reflection stared back from the mirror. Older. Quiet. Haunted. Me.
The calendar read March 24th.
A full week gone. Seven days since… what?
A dream?
A miracle?
A second chance I never deserved?
My throat clenched. I sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheet.
What had I changed?
Had anything truly shifted in the world?
Or had it all been inside me?
I reached for my phone. It was fully charged, glowing in the dim room. Dozens of notifications.
But I ignored them.
I opened the contacts.
Typed: Hari.
The name appeared. Still there. I had never deleted it — just buried it in silence.
My finger hovered over the call button.
Then, impulsively, I hit it.
One ring. Two. Three.
I almost gave up.
"Hello?"
His voice.
Older. A little huskier. Still unmistakable.
I couldn't breathe.
"Who's this?"
I swallowed. "It's me," I whispered.
Silence. A long one.
Then, slowly, a laugh. Quiet. Shaky.
"No way," he said. "I was just thinking about you. Yesterday, even."
We didn't say much after that. We didn't need to.
The space between us had closed.
Later that day, I visited the temple near the school. The chai vendor was still there. I bought two cups, left one on the bench.
I sat there, watching the sky turn amber.
Not everything had changed.
The past hadn't rewritten itself like a movie.
But I had carried something back. A version of us. A reminder. A heartbeat.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
As I sipped the tea, a boy ran past, holding a notebook under one arm and a mango in the other.
I smiled.
Some days return to you.
And some days, you return to yourself.