Chapter 3: The Letter That Knew Tomorrow
The next letter arrived before Aarav was ready.
It waited on his desk when he returned home, placed neatly between his notebook and the window—where no one else had been. The envelope was plain. No stamp. No address.
Only his name.
This time, he didn't open it immediately.
Fear had changed shape. It wasn't sharp anymore. It was patient.
When he finally unfolded the paper, the first line stopped his breath.
You're going to pretend today never happened.
Aarav felt exposed, like someone had turned the lights on inside his chest.
The letter continued.
You will wake up tomorrow and tell yourself it was imagination. You always do that when truth gets close.
He sat down slowly.
Outside, rain began without warning, tapping against the glass like nervous fingers.
But this is where you decide, the letter said. You either return to the version of yourself that learned to disappear—or you stay.
Aarav remembered the mirror. The way his reflection hadn't felt like an enemy, just unfinished.
The final lines were shorter. Quieter.
Come back to the library. One last time. Bring the notebook you never finish.
His heart beat louder than the rain.
That night, sleep didn't come at all. Instead, memories did—every moment he had chosen silence, every time he had swallowed a word because it felt safer than being wrong, or real.
Near dawn, Aarav picked up his notebook.
For the first time, he didn't write poetry.
He didn't write excuses.
He wrote the truth.
When the sun rose, Aarav knew something had shifted. Not healed. Not fixed.
But faced.
And that was more dangerous than fear.
Because once you face yourself,
there is no way back to pretending you didn't know.