Fifteen Years Too Late

Sometimes, Mira dreams of hallways.

Not the ones she walks through now, but the old ones. Narrow. Noisy. Smelling of floor wax, dusty notebooks, and rain-soaked shoes.

In the dreams, she is young again. Always watching. Always standing on the side of the corridor where she doesn't quite belong.

There is a boy in those hallways. He is carrying a guitar. He never looks at her, and yet, she knows he is the reason she is there.

Years later, in a city where no one knows her past, Mira still thinks of those days. She thinks of letters folded too many times, of promises made too early, and of the words that stayed trapped in her throat.

She tells herself that writing it down will finally empty the weight from her body.

She is wrong.

Some stories don't leave when you tell them. They just wait for you to look back so they can break you all over again.