Omnicient POV
The alarm started before the sun did.
That ugly default ringtone — trrr-trrr-trrr — bounced around the small bedroom like an unwanted guest. Abhay groaned, rolled to his side, and jabbed at the screen until silence returned. He stared at the ceiling fan above him, its lazy spin matching his mood. The rain outside had left the sky the color of old newspaper.
"Another Monday," he muttered. Though it was Friday.
He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. The room was small — one bed, a crooked study table, a bookshelf that had stopped being organized years ago. A half-empty cup of tea from last night still sat near his laptop, and the power light blinked as if judging him for not shutting it down properly.
The phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't the alarm but his mother's message.
>"Good morning beta, eat something healthy today!"
Abhay smiled a little. "Sure, Ma. I'll eat air-fried motivation," he said to no one, stretching until his back cracked.
He brushed his teeth, boiled water for tea, and looked out the small kitchen window. The neighborhood was waking up — scooters sputtering to life, a few kids in uniforms waiting for their school vans, and that old aunty who watered plants every morning like she was negotiating peace with the soil.
By 7:45, Abhay was ready in his usual office outfit — plain shirt, dark trousers, ID card hanging from a blue lanyard. Nothing about him looked out of place, which was precisely the problem.
He tied his shoes, grabbed his helmet, and stepped into the drizzle.
---
The Commute
The road to the bus stop was wet, dotted with puddles that reflected passing headlights. Abhay's sneakers splashed through them with small sighs. He joined the familiar line of commuters waiting for the No. 12 bus — a parade of blank faces lit by phone screens.
He slipped in his earbuds and played an old playlist labeled "College Energy." It didn't work anymore, but nostalgia kept him loyal to it.
When the bus arrived, he climbed in, found a seat by the window, and watched the city slide by — street vendors setting up, a couple arguing on a balcony, dogs chasing each other through the drizzle.
Every morning looked the same, but he always felt like he was watching it for the first time. Or maybe the last.
The radio inside the bus crackled with a local DJ's over-enthusiastic voice.
"Good morning Guwahati! The city's waking up slow, but let's make it a bright one!"
Abhay smirked. "Yeah, bright like my job prospects," he said under his breath.
He wasn't miserable — just… restless. His life was okay. Stable. Predictable. But it felt like being stuck in the world's longest loading screen. He was thirty, earning decently, sending money home every month, and being the eldest and the only son meant he was the family's steady pillar.
But pillars don't move.
He remembered how, at seventeen, he wanted to travel — join a trek, shoot a documentary, maybe even start a YouTube channel back when it wasn't saturated. But his father had fallen sick that same year, and Abhay had shelved every dream with quiet obedience. The family needed him steady, not spontaneous.
---
At Work
The hospital building loomed ahead like a tired giant. Its grey walls were streaked from years of rain. Abhay parked his bike in the staff corner, swiped his ID at the gate, and stepped into the fluorescent-lit pharmacy.
"Morning, sir!" one of the assistants greeted.
"Morning, Manas," he replied, forcing a half-smile.
The smell of antiseptic and cardboard filled the air. Rows of medicines stood like soldiers on duty — neat, labeled, lifeless. He logged into the system, checked the stock list, and started sorting the morning delivery.
It was mechanical work, but he liked the order of it. Pills didn't argue, invoices didn't gossip. The hum of the air conditioner was his background music.
At 10:30, his manager, Mr. Das, peeked in.
"Abhay, we're short on glucose drips again. Make sure the order comes before evening, alright?"
"Yes, sir," Abhay said, already typing the request.
After Das left, Abhay sighed and leaned back in his chair. "If they ever give out Oscars for pretending to care, I'd win," he said softly.
Lunch came and went. He and Rakesh ate in the break room, talking about everything except ambition.
"You know, sometimes I think I'll just open a tea stall near a beach," Rakesh said.
Abhay laughed. "At least you'd get fresh air. I'd probably overthink the tea prices and ruin it."
"Bro, you think too much," Rakesh said, grinning.
"I know," Abhay said. "That's why I don't do much."
By 5:30, the sky was turning violet. The rain returned — soft but steady. Abhay closed the counter, handed the keys to the evening shift, and packed up. His shoulders ached. His mind buzzed with the usual thoughts: bills, calls to return, groceries.
He put on his helmet and started his motorbike. The roads shimmered under streetlights, slick with rain. Traffic was thin — just the occasional car or scooter passing by.
He took the shortcut, the one that cut through the half-built flyover site. It saved him ten minutes every day. He knew it was risky, but he'd been through it a hundred times before.
The air smelled of wet cement and diesel. Water trickled down the sides of the road. His tires hissed against the surface.
He thought about what to have for dinner — maybe momos near the bridge, maybe noodles if he felt like splurging. He thought about calling home, telling his mother he'd visit next month. He thought about how absurdly quiet the city seemed tonight.
He almost laughed at the thought that maybe, finally, something unpredictable could happen.
That's when it did.
---
A truck shot out from the adjoining lane, horn blaring. Abhay's reflexes kicked in — brake, turn, skid — but the wet road betrayed him. The world twisted. Headlights shattered into streaks of white. There was a crash, a roll, a sharp sting in his chest — then everything dissolved into blur.
The sound of rain faded first. Then the light.
First person POV
For a moment, there was nothing.
No pain, no sound, no rain. Just a kind of soft silence that felt almost polite — as if the world had paused to let me catch up.
Then came the blur. Colors without names. Voices without faces. I could feel my chest rising and falling, but only faintly, like someone else was breathing for me.
And somewhere between the flashes of light and dark, I realized — this might be it. The end.
Funny thing is, it didn't scare me. Not really. What scared me more was how ordinary the day had been. I'd brushed my teeth, cursed my alarm, joked with Rakesh, planned dinner — and just like that, curtain down.
I used to think life would at least play a dramatic background score before ending. But no — mine just cut to silence mid-sentence.
And then, like a projector starting up, the memories began.
---
At first, it was my childhood home — small, noisy, alive. I was eight, sitting on the veranda, swinging my legs as my grandfather read the newspaper. He used to lick his thumb before turning each page, a habit I found both gross and comforting.
"Abhay," he'd said, lowering the paper. "You see these cricketers? They're not born great. They practice every day. Whatever you do, give it your all."
I remember nodding seriously, even though I had no idea what giving it your all meant. At that age, I thought being grown-up meant drinking tea without sugar.
Then the scene shifted — my school days. The endless cycle of exams, friends, and daydreams. I wasn't the topper, but I was smart enough that teachers called me "potential wasted." My IQ test once showed 140, which everyone treated like a badge of honor. But if intelligence could win life, I'd have retired by now.
At thirteen, I wanted to be everything — a writer, a pilot, a game designer, maybe all three. I filled notebooks with sketches of imagined worlds and names of characters that would one day make me famous.
At sixteen, I discovered anime. Those stories hit me differently — kids fighting gods, chasing dreams, never giving up even when it made no sense. It made me believe that my life too could be something extraordinary.
I'd stay up late watching Naruto reruns and whisper, "One day, I'll find my own adventure."
But life isn't scripted by studio writers. It's written by bills, duties, and fear.
---
The next memory was college. I was sitting in a tiny hostel room, a pile of chemistry notes in front of me. Outside, people were laughing, playing guitar, living. I was calculating the safest path — the one that would please everyone but me.
"Pharmacy's stable," they said. "Government job, good benefits."
And they were right. I didn't hate it. I just never loved it either. It was like being in a relationship out of politeness.
Still, I told myself, It's okay. Adventure can wait. First responsibility, then freedom.
But freedom never came. Only routines did.
Wake up. Work. Eat. Sleep. Pretend to be okay.
---
I remember once, when my younger cousin got a scholarship abroad, my aunt had said, "See, Abhay, you're the eldest. You've set the example. Everyone looks up to you."
I smiled, but inside I thought — What example?
An example of playing safe? Of burying every spark under duty?
I didn't blame anyone. My parents did everything for me. They gave up dreams so I could chase mine — I just never chased them.
---
Now, floating here in this half-dream space, I see how much time I spent waiting. Waiting for the right moment, the right mood, the right courage. But time doesn't wait back.
I could have learned guitar. I could have taken that solo trip. I could have called my old friends. I could have written that damn book I always outlined but never started.
Instead, I kept saying "someday."
And someday never came.
---
It's funny — I used to complain that my life was boring, that nothing exciting ever happened. But maybe that was my fault. I played life like a tutorial I was too scared to finish.
If I'd known this morning would be my last, I'd have done it differently.
I'd have woken up earlier, actually tasted the tea instead of just drinking it.
I'd have talked to that old lady with the plants and asked her what she was growing.
I'd have told Rakesh that he should open that beach tea stall — and that I'd visit.
I'd have called Ma just to hear her voice instead of waiting for the weekend.
---
Now everything's fading. The light feels thinner. The edges of my world are soft. But my thoughts have never been clearer.
I realize something now: I've been alive for thirty years, but I only lived in fragments. Always planning, never leaping. Always smart, never brave.
Maybe intelligence is overrated. Maybe all it does is give you better excuses for your fears.
I always thought being responsible meant being careful. But maybe real responsibility is honoring the one life you get by actually living it.
---
I don't know where I am now — maybe in an ambulance, maybe in my mind. But if there's another life, another chance — I swear, I'll do it right.
I won't wait for permission or perfect timing. I'll take the risks, the road trips, the mistakes.
I'll climb mountains, jump oceans, make things, break things, and make my parents proud — not by being safe, but by being alive.
And when the world asks who Abhay Bharadwaj was, I want the answer to be simple:
He lived — fully, foolishly, and fearlessly.
If I ever open my eyes again, that's the life I'll choose.
No more "someday."
Only today.