For a few seconds, I couldn't answer her.
I stood alone in my kitchen, one hand gripping the edge of the counter while rain pressed softly against the apartment windows. The noodles on the stove had already gone cold, but I barely noticed.
Because my mind was stuck on one terrifying fact.
She knew.
Not guessed.
Not assumed.
Knew.
"How did you know that?" I asked quietly.
On the other side of the call, Meera stayed silent for a moment too long.
Then she sighed softly.
"I think we should stop talking for tonight."
"What? No." I straightened immediately. "Meera, wait."
"You're overwhelmed already."
"That's because none of this makes sense."
"I know."
"No, you don't." My voice came out sharper than intended. "You keep talking like you already know something."
Another silence.
I could hear faint traffic sounds from her side, as if she was still outside somewhere.
Finally, she spoke again.
"Arjun… if I tell you something right now, you'll only end up with more questions."
"Then let me ask them."
"You're not ready yet."
The words irritated me more than they should have.
Everyone had been deciding things for me lately—doctors after the accident, relatives after my mother died, even Kabir constantly acting like I might break apart if left alone too long.
And now Meera was doing the same.
"You don't get to decide that," I said quietly.
For the first time since the call began, her voice sounded tired.
"I know."
The anger inside me faded almost instantly.
I rubbed my forehead and exhaled slowly. "Sorry."
"No," she said softly. "You're right."
The rain outside grew heavier again. Somewhere in the building above mine, footsteps moved across the floor.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Strangely, the silence didn't feel empty.
It felt familiar.
Then Meera asked suddenly, "Do you still write things down?"
I frowned. "What?"
"You used to," she said absentmindedly. "Whenever you were scared of forgetting something important."
My heartbeat slowed.
"How do you know that?"
This time, she realized her mistake immediately.
"Forget I said that."
"No." I stepped away from the counter. "Meera, stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Talking like you already knew me before today."
The line stayed quiet.
Then very softly, almost painfully softly, she said—
"What if I did?"
My chest tightened.
Before I could respond, the call disconnected.
I stared at my phone screen in disbelief.
Then immediately called her back.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
No answer.
By the fourth attempt, her phone was switched off.
I stood there for several seconds, listening to the silence in my apartment.
Then slowly, I looked toward the small wooden drawer beside the bookshelf.
A strange memory had surfaced because of what she said.
You used to write things down.
Something about that sentence felt real.
Familiar.
Almost automatic.
Without fully understanding why, I walked toward the drawer and pulled it open.
Inside were old receipts, chargers, random papers—
And beneath them, a black notebook.
I froze.
I didn't remember owning it.
The cover looked worn, as if it had been opened hundreds of times before.
My pulse quickened slightly as I picked it up.
When I opened the first page, my own handwriting stared back at me.
Things I should never forget.
A cold feeling spread slowly through my chest.
I turned the page.
Most of it was filled with random notes.
Dates.
Phone numbers.
Small reminders.
But several lines were underlined heavily, almost desperately.
If you start forgetting again, trust the feeling first.
Again.
That word.
Again.
I flipped through more pages quickly.
Then stopped abruptly.
One sentence had been written across an entire page.
Her favorite color is yellow.
Below it:
She hates crowded stations.
And below that—
No matter what happens, don't let her leave alone that night.
My breathing became uneven.
That night?
What night?
I turned pages faster now.
Some sections had been crossed out violently with black ink, making the words impossible to read.
Others looked damaged by water, as if someone had spilled rain across them.
Then I reached the final written page.
Only one sentence was there.
And unlike the rest of the notebook, this line looked shaky.
Terrified.
If she comes back someday… ask her why she disappeared.
A sudden headache slammed into me.
The room blurred slightly.
And another memory flashed—
Rain.
Screeching tires.
Someone screaming my name.
A yellow scarf slipping from trembling fingers.
I stumbled backward, nearly dropping the notebook.
My heart pounded violently against my ribs.
Then—
My phone vibrated.
Unknown Number.
I answered instantly.
"Meera?"
But the voice on the other side wasn't hers.
It was Kabir.
And he sounded panicked.
"Arjun," he said quickly, breathing heavily. "Don't meet Meera alone again."
Every nerve in my body went still.
"What?"
There was fear in his voice now.
Real fear.
"Because I just remembered something too."