Morning came without mercy.
I hadn't slept. I didn't need to.
The weight of the journal pressed on my chest like a phantom limb, and the words kept echoing:
"If you find this… and you're me…"
He had known. He had written to me — the version of him that had taken over. The version that had no name of his own, only his life. His memories. His people.
His pain.
Downstairs, everything was normal.
Dad sipped his tea with the newspaper.
My brother shouted for toothpaste from the bathroom.
Mom was humming a familiar tune — but this time, it didn't comfort me. It only reminded me that none of this belonged to me. Not really.
I was a ghost wearing someone else's heartbeat.
I went for a walk.
Same street. Same smells of garbage and jasmine. Same corner where Harish and I once stole mangoes from the neighbor's tree and got chased barefoot for two blocks.
Everything looked the same.
But I was different.
The notebook was still in my hands.
I had read it again before I left — but this time, slower. Trying to read between the lines. And I noticed something: a small card, folded and wedged between the final pages.
It was faded. Bent. Handwritten.
"Meet me behind the school. 4:45 PM sharp. Come alone.
— You know why."
It was dated March 17th. The day before everything broke.
I checked the time.
3:58 PM.
My pulse quickened.
Was it left for me? For the real Ruhan? Was I too late — or had I become just in time?
I reached the school wall, ducked past the broken gate, and followed the back path where the mango tree stood — now grown taller, leaves rustling like they knew something.
And there, waiting by the edge of the broken fence, was a boy.
Slim. Nervous posture. Bag on his shoulder.
I stopped cold.
Because it was me.
Or rather, the one I remembered being. The one from those old class photos. The one I saw in the mirror of memory.
He looked up. Saw me.
His eyes widened.
Mine did too.
Neither of us spoke.
Then he broke the silence.
"You read it, didn't you?"
I nodded.
He stepped forward.
"I knew this would happen eventually. That one of us would forget. That time would swallow one and spit out the other."
"Which one are you?" I asked, voice hollow.
He smiled — sad, but kind. "Does it matter now? You're here. I'm here. And everything is about to break again."
We sat on the ground, side by side. Two halves of one life.
And for a moment, we weren't lost boys.
We were just... together.
The sun dipped lower, and he stood up.
"One last thing," he said. "You can keep them — the family, the memories. But promise me you'll never lie to them. Not even to protect them."
"I promise."
He nodded.
Then turned.
And walked away.
He didn't vanish. Didn't dissolve into dust or light.
He just walked — back into the trees.
Like he belonged to the past.
And I...
I finally belonged to the present.
But I knew now:
Belonging doesn't come from being born.
It comes from choosing who you'll be.
And I had made my choice.
Even if the original never truly left.