Morning came whether he was ready or not.
The alarm rang at six. He turned it off without opening his eyes. For a few seconds, he lay still, staring at the darkness behind his eyelids, hoping—without knowing why—that the day would cancel itself.
It didn't.
He got up. Brushed his teeth. Wore the same ironed shirt his mother had left on the chair the previous night. Ate breakfast without tasting it. His mother spoke about vegetables getting expensive, about a neighbour's wedding, about nothing important.
He nodded at the right moments.
Inside, something felt distant. Like he was watching his own life from far away.
The bus ride to office passed in silence. Earphones in, no music playing. He used to listen to songs during the commute. Now the silence felt safer. Songs reminded him of things he didn't want to remember.
The MNC building stood tall and glassy, full of people who walked fast and spoke faster. Swipe card. Lift. Desk.
He was good at his job. Or at least, he used to be.
That day, he stared at his screen for almost ten minutes before realizing the code hadn't changed at all. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, unsure where to begin. He typed, deleted, typed again.
A small mistake slipped in. Then another.
By afternoon, his team lead called him aside—not angry, just confused.
"You okay? You're usually more careful."
He smiled. That automatic smile. The one he had perfected over years.
"Yes. Just didn't sleep well."
It wasn't a lie. It also wasn't the truth.
Days passed like this. One blending into another. Work. Bus. Home. Sleep that didn't feel like rest. He stopped checking messages. Stopped laughing at jokes. Stopped caring when colleagues whispered that he seemed distracted.
At night, her face appeared without warning.
Not dramatic. Not cinematic.
Just small things.
The way she tied her hair while studying.
The way she said anna without thinking twice.
The confidence in her eyes when she talked about her future.
And always—always—that final thought.
What if I had told her?
He hated himself for it.
Not because he loved her.
But because he had chosen silence, and silence had chosen him back.
One evening, while reviewing a file, his screen suddenly blurred. The words didn't make sense anymore. His heart beat faster, uneven. For a moment, he felt like the office floor was tilting.
He stood up abruptly.
His chair fell backward with a loud sound.
Everyone turned.
"Are you alright?" someone asked.
He nodded too quickly.
"Yeah… just dizzy."
But even as he said it, he knew something was wrong.
That night, at home, he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling fan as it rotated endlessly. The sound reminded him of time—moving forward without asking permission.
A thought surfaced, quiet but dangerous.
If I could go back… just once…
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time, the thought didn't fade.