The past has a strange way of creeping back into the present—uninvited, yet unforgettable.
It began with a sound. The rustle of leaves outside my window, the distant echo of a child's laughter. The kind of sound that should've been ordinary… except it wasn't. It triggered something—an image, a scent, a memory I thought I had buried deep.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring blankly ahead, unable to escape the grip of that invisible force dragging me back. To a time when things were simpler, yet somehow far more painful.
I remembered my mother's voice—soft but tired. I remembered my father's silence—heavy and loud in its absence. I remembered the weight of expectations, the shame of failure, the constant question in their eyes: "Why can't you just be normal?"
Back then, Rio was the only thing that felt real.
We were just kids—two boys riding bikes down cracked village roads, dreaming of futures far from our dusty hometown. He always wanted to be a civil servant. I wanted… I didn't know what I wanted. Maybe I just wanted to breathe.
Now, he's a respected PNS, and I'm a military officer—Major, they call me. Funny how titles mean so little when your heart is still caught in a war it never signed up for.
Earlier today, I saw Rio again. His smile hasn't changed, but his eyes have. There's weariness there. We talked about old times, pretending the scars weren't visible. But they were. And they still hurt.
"Do you ever think about those days?" he asked.
"Every damn day," I said.
And for a brief moment, we weren't Major and Government Officer. We were just two boys again—lost in memories, hoping they meant something.
But the past never stays in the past.
It lurks in every silent moment, in every glance, in every regret.
"Sometimes, survival isn't about moving forward—it's about learning to live with the echoes that never fade."