It began with laughter — the kind that sneaks up on you when you're not expecting it.
We were at Anika's house after school. Her mom had made pani puri, and the three of us sat cross-legged on the floor, bowls balanced between our knees, the spicy water making our eyes water and our stomachs ache from too much joy.
"Remember the time you drank the tamarind water straight from the bottle?" Anika teased Harish.
He groaned, covering his face. "I was nine! And it looked like cola."
"You puked behind the fridge," I added, grinning. "And blamed the cat."
Laughter erupted again. It spilled into the room and out into the quiet evening, echoing off walls that had heard too many silences.
There was a softness to that hour. A warmth that I hadn't felt in years.
But under it, a low hum of tension still lingered — like a distant thunder, barely audible yet impossible to ignore.
Because I knew what tomorrow was.
Tomorrow was the day Anika would disappear after school without telling anyone.
The day Harish would overhear something he wasn't meant to and grow quieter for weeks.
The day I would ignore them both, too caught in my own storm to notice theirs.
But now, I wasn't just remembering — I was inside it, walking the edge of it with full awareness. And I didn't know what would happen anymore.
Because we had changed things. Slightly. Gently.
But enough.
As the sun dipped low and shadows grew longer, Harish stood up. "I should get going. Amma's already suspicious."
Anika rolled her eyes. "Tell her you were studying."
"With you? Yeah, right."
They shared a look — one of those charged glances that said everything their words didn't. And it hit me then: they weren't just friends. Not entirely.
Had I known that before?
I couldn't remember.
I left with them, walking a little slower than usual. At the fork in the road, we paused. The same place where tomorrow, a silence would begin to grow.
But tonight…
"Wanna hang out at the terrace after dinner?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
Harish shrugged. "I'll check. You?"
Anika smiled. "Sure. If I don't fall asleep."
We said our goodbyes.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Not because of what might happen, but because of what had already begun.
I was starting to see them. Not as fragments of my memory, but as people again. Living, breathing, aching.
They had lives I had never fully understood.
And this second chance was no longer just about saving moments —
It was about finally learning to be present in them.
The wind howled outside, and thunder rumbled low in the distance.
A quiet kind of storm was coming.
But this time, I'd be awake for it.