Location: Mumbai, India — March 14, 2016
The ceiling fan creaked above Rehan's head, pushing stale, humid air around the room. The sharp scent of cheap mosquito repellent lingered, mixed with leftover samosa oil and damp concrete.
Rehan sat up abruptly, heart pounding. His mind raced to catch up.
This wasn't his apartment in Andheri. This was his old hostel room. The tiny square space with the broken tile in the corner and that peeling Shah Rukh Khan poster still taped to the wall.
He looked around in disbelief. His desk was stacked with worn-out textbooks. His ancient Samsung phone lay on the nightstand, its cracked screen blinking a low-battery warning. The calendar above it read:
March 14, 2016.
No. That couldn't be right.
He shot up and stumbled into the bathroom. The dim yellow light flickered to life, casting shadows on the cracked mirror. Rehan stared at his reflection.
Younger. Clean-shaven. No scar on his eyebrow. No tired lines from sleepless nights.
He was nineteen again.
His legs gave way and he leaned against the sink, breathing heavily.
This had to be a dream. Or some kind of psychotic break. A delusion. Anything but real.
But it felt real. The water dripping from the tap. The faint noise of motorcycles outside the hostel gates. The familiar thud of footsteps in the hallway.
He rushed back to his phone. It buzzed just as he picked it up.
Incoming Call: Kabir
His stomach flipped.
Kabir Shaikh.
The best friend he had buried six years ago.
Rehan stared at the screen like it might explode. Then, slowly, he answered.
"Finally," Kabir's voice came through, alive and carefree. "You awake or what? Don't tell me you overslept again. I'm waiting at the canteen and I'm not saving your tea forever."
Rehan couldn't speak.
"Hello? You there?" Kabir asked again. "You sound weird. Are you sick or something?"
"No," Rehan said quietly. "I just… I'll be there."
He ended the call, hand trembling slightly.
This wasn't a dream. He could feel the weight of time shifting all around him. This day—this exact day—was when everything had started to fall apart.
And now he was back.
---
Outside, the Mumbai campus buzzed with energy. It was still early, but the sun had already baked the pavement warm. Students milled about with backpacks, cutting through the usual chaos of rickshaws, chai vendors, and honking traffic outside the gates.
Rehan walked like a ghost through it all, soaking in every detail. The smell of chai mixed with engine smoke. The college lawn still full of couples pretending to study. Everything exactly as he remembered.
He turned the corner behind the canteen and saw Kabir lounging on the old stone bench, sipping a steaming cup of tea and munching on a samosa.
Alive.
Same ripped jeans. Same smug grin. Same spiked hair that looked like he'd styled it in the dark.
"You look like you saw a ghost," Kabir said with a smirk.
Rehan sat down beside him, heart pounding.
"What's wrong with you?" Kabir asked, looking genuinely concerned for the first time. "You're pale."
Rehan looked at his friend and almost laughed. "Nothing. Just… weird dreams."
Kabir leaned in. "Well, maybe this will wake you up. Guess who messaged you last night?"
Rehan blinked. "Who?"
"Aanya," Kabir said, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah. That Aanya. 'Can we talk?' Straight to the point. I think you're about to get back together or get slapped. Either way, I'm here for it."
Rehan froze.
Aanya Rai.
Brilliant, cold-eyed, untouchable. The girl who had haunted him for years. In his original life, that message had led to the worst argument of his youth. Words said in anger. Doors closed forever.
Now, the same message had arrived—again.
Rehan slowly took out his phone. There it was:
[Aanya Rai: Can we talk?]
He hadn't even read it the first time. He'd just reacted. Angry. Immature. Defensive.
Not this time.
But before he could think more, his phone buzzed again.
A new message.
Not from Aanya. Not from Kabir.
An unknown number.
[Unknown: We're not done yet.]
Rehan stared at the screen, every muscle in his body suddenly tense.
Someone else knew.
---
Rehan looked up, scanning the crowd around the canteen. Students moved, laughed, argued. Nothing looked unusual.
But the message still blinked on his phone.
We're not done yet.
He wasn't the only one who remembered.
******