The Days That Were Never Mine - The Minutes That Remembered Him - Part 2
Aarav didn’t sleep that night.
Not because he couldn’t.
But because he didn’t trust what would happen if he did.
He sat against the headboard, the wall clock directly in front of him, its ticking now unbearable in the silence.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Every second felt like a test.
Every minute… a threat.
At 2:11 a.m., he made a decision.
“If this is real,” he said softly, his voice dry, “then I should be able to prove it.”
He reached for his phone and opened the camera.
Recording.
He placed it on the table, angled perfectly toward himself and the clock behind him.
“If I lose time again,” he whispered, “this will catch it.”
For the first time since morning, he felt a sense of control.
A plan.
Something solid.
2:17 a.m.
Still recording.
Still normal.
Aarav stared straight ahead, forcing himself not to blink too often, not to drift even for a second.
Because what if it only happened when he wasn’t paying attention?
2:19 a.m.
His eyes burned slightly.
His breathing slowed.
The ticking softened…
The phone slipped from his hand.
Aarav jerked upright.
His heart slammed violently against his chest.
He looked around.
Same room.
Same position.
Same silence.
But something was wrong.
Very wrong.
The clock read 2:36 a.m.
Seventeen minutes.
Gone.
His hand trembled as he grabbed the phone.
The recording was still on.
Length: 00:25:12
He swallowed hard and opened the video.
His own face stared back at him.
Tired. Still. Watching.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then—
At exactly 2:19 a.m.
Aarav in the video blinked.
Once.
Slowly.
And then—
He smiled.
Aarav froze.
“No…” he whispered.
He didn’t remember smiling.
Not like that.
Not… that way.
It wasn’t relief.
It wasn’t amusement.
It was something else.
Something… aware.
In the video, Aarav leaned forward slightly, closer to the camera.
His posture changed.
Subtly.
But unmistakably.
Less tense.
More… relaxed.
Like someone settling into a familiar place.
And then he spoke.
But not the way Aarav expected.
Not confused.
Not scared.
Calm.
Clear.
“You shouldn’t have tried to watch.”
Aarav dropped the phone.
It hit the bed, the video still playing, his own voice echoing faintly in the room.
His chest tightened, breath shortening.
“No… no, no, no…”
He grabbed the phone again, hands shaking violently now.
Rewound.
Played.
Again.
“You shouldn’t have tried to watch.”
The words were his.
The voice was his.
But the tone…
It carried a quiet certainty.
Like it knew something he didn’t.
The video continued.
Aarav—the other Aarav—tilted his head slightly, studying the camera as if it were a person.
As if it were… him.
“It makes it harder when you notice.”
Aarav’s throat went dry.
“What makes it harder?” he whispered to the empty room.
The video answered.
“For both of us.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Crushing.
The version of him on screen leaned back again, eyes drifting toward the clock.
The smile faded.
His posture stiffened.
And then—
At exactly 2:36 a.m.
He blinked.
The video version of Aarav returned to normal.
Blank.
Confused.
Exactly how Aarav had just woken up.
The recording ended.
Aarav sat there, frozen.
Not moving.
Not thinking.
Because thinking would mean accepting something impossible.
“There’s no ‘both of us’…” he said slowly.
His voice sounded чуж to him now.
“There’s just me.”
The room didn’t respond.
But the silence felt different.
Not empty.
Occupied.
Aarav slowly turned his head toward the mirror across the room.
His reflection stared back at him.
Same face.
Same fear.
Same confusion.
But for a fraction of a second—
He thought he saw it.
That same smile.
Gone.
Aarav stood up abruptly, backing away.
“No…”
His voice cracked now.
“This is not real.”
But the phone in his hand felt real.
The video was real.
The voice was real.
And the words echoed again in his mind:
“For both of us.”
Aarav didn’t sleep at all after that.
Because one question refused to leave him.
It didn’t scream.
It didn’t panic.
It simply waited.
Cold.
Patient.
If someone else is living inside his missing time…
Then when does Aarav get to live?
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