The morning passed in quiet waves. Nothing dramatic. Nothing cinematic. Just the creak of the school gate, the clang of lockers, the hum of fans above a classroom too tired to care.
And yet, every second felt loaded.
Because I knew what this day meant.
This was the day I let things slip — when I got so caught in the chaos of everyone else that I forgot my own promise. The promise to hold on to the small things, the overlooked moments. The ones that stitched life together.
I wouldn't forget today.
Not this time.
After lunch, I found myself back in the library.
It was where I used to disappear. Not to read, necessarily. Just to vanish. To sit between shelves and pretend I was invisible.
The librarian barely noticed me. That hadn't changed.
But the silence… it hit different now. It felt like an invitation.
I picked out a random book. Didn't check the title.
Sat down near the window and let the sun warm my spine.
Across from me, a kid was sketching something in a notebook — messy, unsure strokes. Maybe dragons. Maybe buildings. Maybe nothing.
He looked up suddenly and frowned.
"You're staring."
I blinked. "Sorry. Just… thinking."
He studied me, then said, "You ever feel like you're supposed to be somewhere else?"
I smiled. "Every day."
He looked satisfied with that, went back to his drawing.
I didn't ask his name.
It felt like one of those fleeting, beautiful moments that didn't need more than what it was.
Back in class, I paid attention.
Not to the lesson — that hadn't aged well.
But to the way my classmates whispered during roll call. The way someone passed a folded note. How Anika doodled in the corner of her notebook, pausing now and then like she was lost in a memory she hadn't made yet.
I even noticed how Harish tied and untied his shoelaces three times before settling down.
Details. Layers. People.
The bell rang for last period. No one moved.
It was that heavy hour — right before freedom, right after exhaustion. A teacher droned on about history while outside, birds argued loudly on the ledge.
Then my phone buzzed.
I didn't remember getting a text that day.
I checked.
Unknown Number: "You don't belong here."
My stomach flipped.
I looked around — no one was watching me. No one seemed aware.
I stared at the message again.
The clock ticked louder.
After school, I walked home slower than usual.
The air had turned sticky. Dull thunder rolled in the distance.
I didn't reply to the message.
But it followed me.
In the way the shadows lengthened too fast.
In the way I suddenly felt… watched.
The day had been ordinary.
Too ordinary.
And now, something had shifted beneath it — like a crack forming under paint.
Like something was waiting. Watching.
Winding up.