the-future-me
12,903 Views
It was an evening I can never forget. Mid-summer nights were usually hot and heavy with silence, but this one was different. The sky itself seemed restless, carved open by flashes of lightning, its breath carried by strong winds that whipped through the trees and across the empty road. Thunder rolled in the distance like an old drum, echoing in my chest. While the world was out there, full of laughter, love, and companionship, I found myself alone-walking slowly, without any destination. This evening time had become my favorite. After everything I had lost, after the grief that almost broke me, I discovered something in these walks: calmness. They gave me space to breathe, to forget the noise of the world and sit quietly with my pain. And tonight, though my wounds were still fresh, I felt a strange pull in the air-as if the universe had something to show me. The road was long and lonely. No shops, no people, just me and the storm. Then, in the distance, a single tea stall appeared, lit by one dim bulb that flickered with the wind. It was the only sign of life on that road, and it called to me. I sat on the wooden bench, ordered a cup of tea, and let the warmth of the steam touch my face. Somewhere in the stall, a small speaker played a ghazal by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan: "Fasle gull ha saja hai maikhna." His voice filled the silence, weaving into the wind and thunder. The music felt like it was speaking to my heart, reminding me of beauty even in sorrow. That was when he arrived. A man sat quietly beside me, not too close, but not distant either. He looked ordinary, yet there was something extraordinary about his presence. His eyes carried a calmness that only comes after surviving storms. He glanced toward the speaker and said gently, "This ghazal is good... you like it, don't you?" I nodded, a little surprised. "Yes... I like it. It's beautiful." He smiled faintly, and for a moment we just listened together, letting Nusrat's voice wash over us. Then, slowly, we began to speak. Not about the weather, not about small things, but about life-its weight, its losses, its hidden strength. "You'll survive this. Pain doesn't end you-it prepares you. You may feel broken now, but one day, you will thank this pain for making you who you are meant to be." I stared at him, shocked. How could he know? How could a stranger read the silent story of my soul? But then I looked closer-and I understood. He wasn't a stranger. He was me. Not the me sitting on that bench, but the me from the future. I didn't ask how it was possible. I didn't need proof. The truth was in his voice, in his eyes, in the strange peace he carried. He had lived what I was living. He had endured, and he had survived. For the first time since my loss, I felt something loosen inside me. The grief was still there, but it no longer felt like a cage. His words gave me the key. And then, as quietly as he had appeared, he was gone. No footsteps, no goodbye. The chair beside me was empty. I sat there, my tea growing cold, listening to Nusrat's voice as the storm softened outside. And for the first time, I felt healed-almost whole again. That night, on a lonely road with thunder in the sky and a ghazal in the air, I met myself. The future me. He came like an angel, stayed just long enough to mend the broken pieces, and then disappeared into the night. It was, and will always remain, my favorite evening.