I woke up before the alarm. Even though the bell wouldn't ring until six, my body was already tuned to this routine. The morning was still dim and silent, the kind of silence that made even my own breath feel like a noise. I didn't want to disturb the others still sleeping in the dorm, so I quietly grabbed my bucket and towel and slipped out for a quick bath. By 6:10, I was already back at my desk, hair damp, school bag zipped open, and books spread across the table.
There was something comforting about studying in the early morning light. My mind was clear, and there was a sense of control, as if the whole day would follow my pace. I revised my notes for the day's classes, carefully underlining key points. I even finished my French homework. This was the version of myself I always wanted to be in the past—calm, focused, and ahead. I reached class early too, long before the noise of the day could cloud my peace.
Our first class was Social Science—history, to be precise. The teacher entered with his usual sleepy eyes and animated tone, jumping straight into the topic of the day: The French Revolution As others scrambled for their books, I already had mine open. That's when something unusual happened.
A small folded paper slipped out from between the pages and landed softly on my lap.
I stared at it.
It wasn't mine. I hadn't tucked any notes into this textbook. I turned the paper over. No name. No design. Just plain notebook paper. But when I unfolded it, there, written in a clean, slightly slanted handwriting, was one word:
"Nila."
I blinked.
My heart skipped. For a split second, I thought maybe it was a prank or a random scribble that found its way into my book. But then I read the next line.
"What do you plan to do about Chennai?"
And then, in a smaller, slightly faded line below it:
"Before the floods arrive."
My fingers froze.
My ears began to ring, drowning out the teacher's lecture. I read the note again. Again. And then again. Chennai floods. That can't be right.
It was 2013. The floods didn't happen until 2015, two full years from now.
My throat went dry.
This wasn't a prank. This wasn't something that could've been casually dropped into my book. This was intentional. It was directed at me. And whoever wrote this—they knew.
They knew what I knew.
I didn't react right away. I couldn't. With my face frozen into a neutral mask, I slipped the note between the last pages of my textbook and kept my hand there to feel its presence. A grounding object in the middle of rising confusion.
For the rest of the class, I pretended to take notes. I nodded along, even asked a question to seem normal. But inside, everything was tumbling. The safety of knowing I was the only one reborn into this second chance? Gone.
I wasn't alone.
When the lunch bell rang, I rushed to the dining hall with the others, but I barely tasted my food. I stuffed a few mouthfuls of rice, drank my buttermilk quickly, and excused myself early saying I had to go over my notes for the French class. Nobody questioned it.
Back in the classroom, the corridors were quiet. Most of the students were still finishing their lunch or chatting in the courtyard. I took the last bench, unfolded the note once again, and stared at it like it might change if I looked at it long enough.
"What do you plan to do about Chennai before the floods arrive?"
That one sentence destroyed all the logic I'd used so far to calm myself.
Until now, I had assumed that only I had the knowledge of the future. I had treated my memories as a privilege—and a responsibility. I had quietly adjusted my choices, slowly preparing for the long game. Now, someone else was playing it too.
And they weren't hiding passively. They reached out.
Why now?
And how much do they know?
Who were they before?
And why the Chennai floods? Out of all the events? It wasn't even something directly related to me. I had seen the news. I had cried for the city and the loss of lives. But I didn't live in Chennai, not then. My family wasn't affected. So, what was I expected to do?
My hands trembled slightly, the adrenaline catching up to my brain's whirlwind. I didn't even know how the letter reached me. Someone had slipped it into my textbook without anyone noticing. They must know my schedule, my habits, my seat. Was it someone from my class?
It had to be.
I drew a deep breath, slowly calming myself. Think, Nila. Think. You've been through worse.
This means someone else remembers. But who? And why are they reaching out now?
Was it a warning? A test? A puzzle?
I folded the note again, much more neatly this time, and placed it inside the front cover of my history textbook. I tapped it once, like I was sealing a deal.
Whoever this person was, they had made their move. Now it was my turn.
The letter changed everything.
As I slipped it back into the pages of my textbook, a familiar restlessness took root in my chest. All that peace I had finally begun to feel? Gone. I didn't know if I felt exposed or seen, but I didn't like not knowing who saw me.
One thing was clear now: it wasn't a girl from the hostel. The note had been planted in a textbook I kept in class, not the dorm. Which meant it happened during school hours—when I was either in class, in the library, or on the court. The boys had access to the classroom during breaks just like us.
So that narrowed it. A little.
I mentally pulled out the list of boys I had grown close to in my past life. Not many. Maybe five or six. Most of the others drifted in and out of my days, but these few stayed longer. Longer enough to matter. One of them had even been in my life much later—close enough to guess the kind of person I was becoming. Close enough to notice if I was now acting differently.
But who?
My eyes wandered casually across the classroom.
Ishanth was laughing with his gang near the window, reenacting something stupid from lunch. He was too carefree, too loud. No, not him.
Vishwa sat near the front, already solving maths sums like it was a game. Not him either. He'd barely even spoken to me this time around.
And then… Nishanth.
He wasn't doing anything special. Just sitting a few benches away, scribbling something in his notebook. But I couldn't help it. My gaze lingered.
Nishanth was from Chennai. That much I remembered clearly. He was the only one from our batch who came from the city. In the past life, we hadn't spoken much at first, but eventually… things had changed. He had opened up. Bit by bit. Enough for me to know he wasn't all surface. He had layers. Secrets, maybe.
And now, he was suddenly… looking at me?
Our eyes met for the briefest moment before he looked away. But not before offering a half-smile. Not teasing. Not smug. Just—soft. Gentle, even.
He returned to his notebook.
I frowned.
Was I reading too much into it? Maybe he was just being nice. Or maybe he was watching me, just like I was watching everyone else.
He was the only one from Chennai. That wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be.
If it was him… he didn't want me to panic. He was warning me. Testing me. Maybe waiting to see if I'd remember something, just like he had.
I scribbled a fake note in my margin, trying to calm my heartbeat.
This time, I wouldn't panic. I would play along.
But first, I needed to be sure. And for that, I had to observe more. Quietly. Patiently. Like him.
Let's see who blinks first.