The days that followed blurred together.
Not because they were uneventful — but because they felt too full, too fragile. Like I was learning how to live all over again, but this time with someone else's breath inside me.
I could feel him still — not like a ghost, but like a hum beneath my skin.
The original.
The real Ruhan.
He hadn't disappeared.
He had folded himself quietly into the corners of my heart.
I found myself watching my family more.
Not out of fear, but reverence.
Dad laughed harder these days. His shoulders didn't sag like they used to — maybe because I hadn't yet failed that exam that would've started a spiral. Maybe because the world hadn't cracked open under our feet yet.
And Mom… she was humming more songs now. Holding my hand longer. Cooking my favorite food without me asking.
I memorized every moment. Every wrinkle in her smile.
I didn't want to waste a second of this miracle.
One evening, Harish called.
"Dude. You okay? You've been… I don't know, quiet."
I looked out at the sky from my bedroom window. "I'm okay. Just… thinking."
"About?"
"Do you ever wonder if we're who we say we are? Or if we're just stories someone else left behind for us to wear?"
A pause.
"Bro," he said, laughing softly, "if this is about me borrowing your cycle and not returning it, just say it."
I laughed too. Genuinely.
He didn't understand.
But that was okay.
Some truths are too sharp to hand over bare.
Later that night, I sat alone in my room with the journal again.
I had started writing in the back of it.
Not as Ruhan, but as myself.
Or maybe… as both.
Each entry began the same way:
"Today, I lived better than yesterday."
Because that was all I could promise now.
Not to fix the past.
Not to become the perfect son, brother, or friend.
But to live like I deserved the life I'd borrowed.
On March 20th — the day everything had originally fallen apart — I woke up to birds chirping instead of chaos.
There was no hospital visit.
No letter from Dad's employer.
No fight with Harish.
Instead, there was breakfast.
There was warmth.
There was possibility.
I didn't change everything.
But maybe I had changed enough.
In the mirror, I caught my reflection again.
Still sixteen. Still mine.
But this time, I saw someone else standing just behind the glass — watching, quietly.
Not haunting.
Not jealous.
Just… watching.
I smiled at him.
And for the first time, he smiled back.
Because sometimes, we don't need to erase the past to move forward.
We just need to carry its echoes… gently.