The Days That Were Never Mine - The Clock That Skipped - Part 1
Aarav noticed it at 8:17 a.m.
Not because something happened.
But because something… didn’t.
The clock on his wall ticked like it always did—steady, indifferent. He was tying his shoelaces, already late for work, when his phone buzzed on the table behind him.
He glanced at it.
8:17.
A message from his manager.
He turned back to finish tying his laces.
And then—
He was standing near the door.
His bag was already on his shoulder.
His shoes—perfectly tied.
The clock now read 8:23.
Aarav frowned.
He stood still for a moment, his hand still resting on the doorknob. Six minutes. Gone. Not passed. Not experienced.
Just… absent.
He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly, as if checking whether they still belonged to him.
“Okay…” he whispered to himself. “You’re just distracted.”
It made sense. Kind of.
He hadn’t been sleeping well. Late nights, endless scrolling, work pressure—it adds up. People zone out. People forget small things.
Six minutes isn’t a big deal.
Right?
The city outside moved like it always did—loud, impatient, alive. Traffic signals blinked red and green with mechanical obedience. People rushed past him, each one locked inside their own urgency.
Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
Aarav boarded the bus, gripping the overhead rail as it jerked forward. He tried to shake it off, scrolling through his phone, rereading the same message from his manager without actually processing it.
“Don’t be late again.”
Again?
He didn’t remember being late yesterday.
Or the day before.
His brows tightened slightly.
By the time he reached the office, the unease had settled somewhere deep inside him—not loud, not overwhelming… just present.
Like a thought he couldn’t quite finish.
He sat at his desk. The computer screen flickered to life. Emails loaded. Notifications piled up.
Routine took over.
For a while, everything felt fine.
Until 11:42 a.m.
Aarav was in the middle of typing a report. He remembered the sentence clearly:
“The quarterly data suggests a marginal—”
And then—
“—increase in user engagement compared to the previous cycle.”
The sentence was complete.
His hands were no longer on the keyboard.
They were resting on his lap.
The document was saved.
The timestamp read 11:49 a.m.
Seven minutes.
Gone.
Again.
This time, he didn’t brush it off.
His heart rate picked up, just slightly. Not panic. Not yet.
But enough.
He looked around the office.
No one seemed to notice anything unusual. People were talking, typing, laughing softly. The air conditioner hummed its usual cold indifference.
Reality was intact.
Except for him.
Aarav slowly moved his hand back to the mouse, scrolling through the document he didn’t remember finishing.
Every word made sense.
Every sentence sounded like him.
But he had no memory of writing it.
“Hey, Aarav.”
He flinched.
Riya stood beside his desk, holding a file.
“You okay? You look… off.”
He blinked at her, forcing a small smile.
“Yeah. Just didn’t sleep well.”
She nodded, unconvinced but uninterested in pushing further.
“Happens. Don’t mess up the client report today, okay? You already sent the wrong version yesterday.”
Aarav froze.
“What?”
She frowned. “Yesterday? You don’t remember?”
He stared at her.
No.
He didn’t.
The rest of the day blurred—not because time disappeared again, but because his mind refused to stay steady.
He kept checking the clock.
Every few minutes.
Watching.
Waiting.
As if expecting it to betray him again.
That night, Aarav sat on his bed, staring at the same wall clock.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Each second felt louder now.
More deliberate.
As if it knew he was watching.
8:16 p.m.
8:17 p.m.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe deeper than necessary.
8:18 p.m.
Still fine.
Still normal.
Aarav let out a slow breath, almost laughing at himself.
“See? Nothing’s wrong,” he muttered.
And then—
The clock read 8:24 p.m.
Aarav didn’t move this time.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t panic.
He just sat there… staring at the clock.
As a single thought, cold and quiet, settled into his mind:
“If I didn’t lose time… then who lived those minutes?”
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