Chapter Two: A Little Mischief, A Little Too Late
I should confess something before the memory takes over again.
I wasn't innocent.
Not in the dramatic sense—no crimes, no secrets buried deep in the ground. Just small rebellions. Tiny betrayals of good sense. The kind everyone commits and no one thinks will matter.
I smile at the empty space in front of me, as if someone is sitting there, listening. "I was a little mischievous," I admit. "The harmless kind. Or so I thought."
That smile fades.
"Sometimes," I add quietly, "harmless things are the ones that hurt the most."
And then the memory pulls me back.
The movie kept playing.
Malik lay sprawled across his bed, phone glowing inches from his face, the sound turned low but not low enough. His eyes followed the movement on the screen, though his mind drifted in and out, catching only fragments—faces, voices, explosions, music swelling where emotions were supposed to peak.
He told himself he was still awake.
He told himself he was paying attention.
He wasn't.
Time slipped past without asking permission.
The house grew still, the kind of stillness that only arrives after midnight, when even the walls seem to hold their breath. Outside, the streetlights hummed softly. Inside, the shadows deepened, stretching long fingers across the floor and climbing the walls.
Malik glanced at the time.
12:18 a.m.
His stomach tightened.
"Oh," he whispered. "Yeah. That's… bad."
He paused the movie. The sudden silence felt wrong, almost loud. His room, which had felt safe and familiar minutes ago, now seemed darker, heavier. The corners of the ceiling looked farther away than they should have been.
A strange fear crept into his chest—not sharp panic, just a low, spreading unease.
He swallowed.
"Stop it," he muttered to himself. "You're nineteen, not nine."
Still, he locked the phone quickly, as if the darkness might crawl out of it.
"I swear," he said softly, making a promise to no one, "I'll finish it tomorrow morning."
He placed the phone on his desk, lay back down, and pulled the blanket up to his chest. His heart took a few moments to slow, then—
Sleep claimed him.
Fast.
Too fast.
Morning came the way it always did.
Light filtered through the curtains, pale and gentle, painting thin lines across the walls. The house stirred awake—cups clinking, footsteps moving, a door opening somewhere down the hall.
Then a knock.
"Malik," his mother called, her voice warm and familiar.
His eyes opened instantly.
"I'm awake!" he answered, voice thick with sleep.
"Don't be late," she said.
"I won't," he replied automatically.
He heard her walk away, her footsteps fading toward the bedroom she shared with his father.
Malik sat up, rubbing his eyes.
Something felt… off.
His body felt lighter than usual, as if someone had quietly removed a weight he'd been carrying his whole life. Not energetic. Not refreshed.
Just light.
"Maybe a good sleep." He mutter.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood.
The floor didn't feel cold.
He didn't notice.
He shuffled into the bathroom, still half-asleep, and reached for the water knob.
His fingers passed straight through it.
Malik froze.
"…What?"
He tried again, slower, more deliberately.
Nothing.
His hand met empty air.
A nervous laugh escaped him. "Okay. That's weird."
He focused, narrowing his eyes, clenching his fingers with intent—as if determination alone could force reality to behave.
Click.
The knob turned.
Water burst from the showerhead.
Malik yelped and jumped under the stream.
Cold water rushed over him—or at least, it felt like it did. He gasped, instinctively scrubbing his arms, his hair, his face. He felt clean.
Refreshed. Awake.
He didn't notice the water didn't cling to his skin.
Didn't notice it didn't darken his clothes or soak his hair.
Didn't notice it passed straight through him, splashing uselessly onto the floor.
When he stepped away, he grabbed a towel and dried himself out of habit. The towel stayed dry.
He didn't question it.
"Still half asleep," he muttered, staring at himself in the mirror.
He looked normal. Alive. Just… lighter somehow.
He brushed it off.
There wasn't time to think.
He rushed back to his room, pulled on his uniform, grabbed his bag, and sprinted out.
"Mom!" he called. "I'm taking breakfast on the way!"
She was in the kitchen, placing a plate in front of his father.
"Take this money," she said, holding it out.
Malik snatched it without stopping. "Thanks!"
He ran.
Out the door. Down the street. Heart racing, legs moving faster than they ever had before. He felt almost weightless, like the ground barely resisted him.
The money slipped from his fingers somewhere along the way.
He didn't notice.
Back at the house, silence returned.
Malik's mother wiped her hands and glanced toward the hallway.
Something tugged at her chest—a feeling she couldn't name, like forgetting something important and not knowing what.
She noticed the money missing.
Sighing softly, she picked it up from the floor near the door.
"Always rushing," she murmured.
She walked to Malik's room.
He had a habit. Whenever he forgot something, he liked it placed on his desk. Said it made him feel like the room was still waiting for him.
She pushed the door open.
The room looked exactly the same.
The desk cluttered. The curtains half-drawn.
The bed—
She stopped.
Her breath caught painfully in her throat.
Malik was there.
Lying on the bed.
Asleep.
Her mind rejected the sight instantly.
"That's not…" she whispered.
She rubbed her eyes hard, once, twice.
When she looked again, he was still there.
Her heart began to pound.
"Malik?" she called, her voice trembling.
No answer.
She stepped closer.
"Malik, wake up," she said gently, reaching out.
Her hand touched his arm.
Cold.
Not morning-cold.
Not room-cold.
Cold like something that should not be warm anymore.
A sharp gasp escaped her.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, no—"
She grabbed his shoulder and shook him harder.
"Malik!"
He didn't move.
Her hands flew to his chest.
Nothing.
No rise. No fall.
She pressed her fingers against his neck, desperately searching for a pulse.
There was none.
Her scream shattered the house.
She collapsed onto the bed, clutching him, sobbing uncontrollably.
"My son," she cried. "Please—please wake up—"
Neighbors rushed in at the sound. Someone called relatives.
Someone whispered prayers. Someone spoke the word burial before the sun had fully climbed the sky.
The house filled with grief and disbelief.
And Malik?
Malik walked through the school gates, annoyed and breathless.
"I'm late," he muttered, glancing around.
And that was the cruelest part.
I look back at the audience, my voice barely above a whisper.
"While they were preparing to bury me," I say, "I was still trying to make it to class on time."