April 5, 2084
Some mornings don't feel like mornings. They feel like beginnings. Like the first page of a fresh notebook or the warm smell of something baking before sunrise. This morning feels like that. There's something about the light pouring in through the curtains, the hum of life just outside my window, and the sharp sound of my mother's voice slicing through it all that makes it feel like the start of something.
"Get up! You're going to miss the bus again!" she yells from the kitchen, in that half-angry, half-laughing tone she always uses when I oversleep.
I groan, pulling the blanket over my head like it could protect me from time itself. But the scent of chai and toasted bread seeps through the door. And that smell has always been stronger than my will to stay in bed.
It's a fresh new day for school. Again. The same thing every day for the past fifteen years! But It was still a new school for me as I had transferred here just a few days ago.
Somehow, it all feels too vivid to be a dream—too warm, too loud, too alive. The calendar says April 5, 2084. I swing my legs off the bed and stretch, the cool floor a soft shock under my feet.
The mirror reflects a younger version of me—messy hair, half-grown-out hoodie, eyes still blurry with sleep but wide with the kind of hope only a new school year can give. No weight of the world yet. No late-night thoughts clawing through my skull. Just nerves about my new school, and whether the uniform makes me look too skinny.
I throw it on anyway. The white shirt is stiff with fresh starch, the tie a little crooked. I fix it twice before giving up.
Dad's already at the door, adjusting his watch and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Don't forget your ID card," he calls out, then ruffles my hair on the way out. "And be nice. First impressions last."
Moms in the kitchen, placing two parathas into a tiffin box like she's packing gold bars. She gives me that look—the one that's equal parts exasperation and affection—then hands over the box and a steel water bottle with a floral sticker on it.
"Eat everything," she warns.
"Yes, ma'am."
She swats my arm, but she's smiling. The kind of smile that tells me everything's good right now.
Outside, the bus honks twice—impatient and familiar. I sprint, my backpack bouncing against my shoulder blades, and leap in just before the door closes.
The bus is exactly as it should be. Faded brown seats. A weird smell of rubber and dust. Kids shouting from the back, others half-asleep up front. I slide into an empty seat by the window, the metal cool against my arm as I lean to look outside.
And that's when I see someone.
Just for a moment. Standing by the school gate. Not doing anything special. Just existing. But somehow, the air shifts.
Her hair is caught in the wind, a streak of sunlight falling just right across her cheek. She's wearing the same school uniform, but it looks different on her—like it was made for her. She's not laughing, not talking. Just watching the buses roll in.
Time stretches. Something in me goes very, very quiet.
Then the bus pulls in, and I lose sight of her.
I stumble off the bus, craning my neck to find her again. But she's gone. Like a glitch in reality. A ripple in the day that's already smoothing itself out.
The halls are chaos—kids finding their sections, teachers yelling instructions, announcements blaring from dusty speakers. I get to my class, Section D, and slide into a seat near the window. But my head's not in the room. It's still outside. Still looking.
The first few periods blur by. A roll call. A lecture on discipline. Some rules about the library. I nod through them all, my pen doodling random spirals instead of notes.
Then recess.
The bell rings and the hallway explodes. Laughter, footsteps, lunchboxes clicking open. I wander toward the courtyard, my tiffin box still in hand. I'm not really hungry. Not for food.
And then, like the universe heard me—there she is.
By the water cooler, laughing. Talking to a girl I don't know. Her laugh is the kind that makes you feel like you missed a joke, but you still want to smile. She throws her hair over her shoulder in a way that isn't rehearsed. It's just how she moves.
I freeze mid-step.
My friend, appears beside me like he always does—loud, chewing something, completely unfazed.
"Looking at the new girl?" he says with a smirk.
I glance at him, not sure whether to deny it or admit it.
He answers anyway. "She's in Section B. Transferred from the North or something. Her dad works at the same place my uncle does."
"What's her name?"
"Don't know yet. She joined today. Same as you."
My chest feels light and full at the same time. Like I swallowed a sky full of helium.
I watch her one last time before she walks away. And even though I don't know her name, I know I want to.
Classes drag. My brain pretends to focus but keeps drifting like a balloon in the wind. Every time someone mentions Section B, my ears perk up like a dog hearing its name.
I make a plan—a dumb, clumsy plan to maybe walk past their class during dispersal. Just in case. Just to see her again.
When the last bell rings, I move like a shadow through the corridor. The crowd makes it easy. Kids are too busy gathering bags and snacks to notice someone sneaking by.
I glance into Section B.
She's not there.
But there's a satchel on the bench. Purple with a little daisy keychain. I recognize it. Saw it slung over her shoulder at lunch.
Before I can process what I'm doing, I'm leaning just enough to peek through the door. I don't step inside. Just look.
And then I hear her voice.
Soft. Laughing. Close.
She turns the corner with her friend, walking toward the classroom, unaware of me standing there like some background extra.
I step back fast. Heart racing.
As she enters, she pauses. Just slightly. Like maybe she saw movement.
And for a second, her eyes meet mine.
It's not long. Barely a moment.
But it's everything.
I had to leave, as it was the time to head back home. But I didn't wanna loose the sight of her. All of a sudden I felt like I wanna be at the school for longer.
Back home, everything is the same. Mom asking how my first day went. Dad watching the news. Dinner smells wafting through the halls.
But I'm not the same.
I lie on my bed later, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles. Just the quiet, floating buzz of something new beginning.
I don't know her name. I don't know what tomorrow will bring.
But I know this: for the first time in a long time, the future doesn't scare me.
It makes me curious.
I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Even through football practice—while the rest of the team ran drills, tackled, laughed too loud—I kept drifting. My feet moved on instinct, muscle memory doing the work while my mind wandered elsewhere. Every echoing bounce of the ball, every shout across the field, felt like static I had to push through just to hold onto the memory of that single glance. Her eyes—there was something in them. Something still lodged inside my chest like a skipped heartbeat that hadn't quite resumed.
"Yo!" my coach barked as the ball sailed past me. "Where are you today?"
I just shook my head and muttered something about the sun being too bright. Everyone laughed. But it wasn't the sun that had blinded me.
The sky was streaked with orange when I left practice. The kind of gold-pink light that only happens when a day wants to be remembered. I rode the bus home in silence, headphones in but no music playing—just letting the hum of the engine and the weight of my thoughts carry me back.
Back to her.
Back to that smile I wasn't supposed to notice. Back to that strange, perfect moment where time slowed like it was holding its breath.
I couldn't stop thinking about her. Even through football practice—while the rest of the team ran drills, tackled, laughed too loud—I kept drifting. My feet moved on instinct, muscle memory doing the work while my mind wandered elsewhere. Every echoing bounce of the ball, every shout across the field, felt like static I had to push through just to hold onto the memory of that single glance. Her eyes—there was something in them. Something still lodged inside my chest like a skipped heartbeat that hadn't quite resumed. "Yo!" my coach barked as the ball sailed past me. "Where are you today?" I just shook my head and muttered something about the sun being too bright. Everyone laughed. But it wasn't the sun that had blinded me. The sky was streaked with orange when I left practice. The kind of gold-pink light that only happens when a day wants to be remembered. I rode the bus home in silence, headphones in but no music playing—just letting the hum of the engine and the weight of my thoughts carry me back. Back to her. Back to that smile I wasn't supposed to notice. Back to that strange, perfect moment where time slowed like it was holding its breath.
I shook the image of her out of my head and tried to focus. The match was about to start, and the coach was watching everyone like a hawk.
I took my position, tightened my laces, and forced my thoughts to stay on the field. For a while, it worked. The world shrank down to the sound of the whistle, the thud of the ball against cleats, the rush of wind past my ears.
And then—pain.
A sharp twist in my ankle after a careless step. I stumbled hard, hitting the ground with a breath-stealing thud. The game didn't stop, but someone helped me off the field, and I sat out, clutching my foot, frustrated more at myself than the injury.
That's when I saw her.
A blur in the distance—moving past the outer wall, near the edge of the school compound. The same figure. Same flow of hair. Same posture. My heart jumped. I stood without thinking, limping toward the gate.
She was walking slowly, almost like she was waiting to be noticed. Every step I took brought me closer, the crowd of students thinning behind me, the rest of the world growing quiet.
And just as I reached her—she turned.
Not her.
Someone else entirely. A different girl with a different face, looking at me with mild confusion before walking away.
Something inside me deflated. I stood still for a long moment, trying to pretend I wasn't disappointed.
The sky was already darkening when I finally turned around and started walking home, one slow, uneven step at a time.