Chapter Three: The Seat That Didn't Exist
I stand before the audience that isn't there, and this time I don't smile.
"I pity my mother," I say quietly.
The words feel heavier every time I repeat them, like they're sinking deeper into something soft and endless. I rub my hands together, though I don't feel their warmth.
"Sometimes I wonder," I continue, "if she's the most fortunate woman… or the most unfortunate one."
I lift my gaze, as if I might actually meet someone's eyes.
"To give birth to me. To carry me for nine months. To raise me with patience and songs and gentle hands."
My voice wavers.
"It feels like God sent her an angel kind, gentle , lovely, protective and guardian,just to watch over me. Like she was chosen—specifically chosen—to protect something fragile."
I let out a breath that doesn't fog the air.
"And maybe that angel was never meant to stay."
The world shifts again, pulling me backward into the moment when I still believed I belonged to it.
The school building rose ahead of Malik like it always had—gray walls, chipped paint, windows reflecting the morning sky. Students flowed inside in clusters, backpacks slung low, laughter spilling freely.
Malik slipped through the gates, heart racing—not from fear, but from the familiar panic of being late.
"Great," he muttered. "Perfect timing."
He jogged toward his classroom, barely slowing as he reached the door. He slipped inside just as the bell rang and dropped into his seat with a quiet laugh of relief.
"Morning, everyone," he said casually, tossing his bag down.
No one answered.
Malik frowned and looked around.
A few students were chatting softly. Others were already bent over their notebooks. Someone behind him yawned loudly.
"Okay," Malik said, louder this time. "I said good morning."
Still nothing.
He chuckled awkwardly. "Wow. Did I miss a memo or something?"
He stood and scanned the room until he spotted Sayyid and Sam sitting together near the window.
"There you are," Malik said, relieved.
He walked over, a grin spreading across his face, and raised his fist. "Come on. Morning fist bump."
Sayyid didn't look up.
Sam kept scribbling something in his notebook.
"…Guys?" Malik said slowly.
He waved his hand between their faces.
Nothing.
His smile faltered.
"You're really committing to this, huh?" he muttered.
The classroom door opened.
The teacher entered, carrying a stack of papers. The room immediately settled as students rushed back to their seats.
Malik stood there for a second, disoriented, then slowly returned to his desk.
"Okay," he told himself under his breath. "You're being pranked. This is a prank. Stupid them for thinking this will be funny. That's all."
The teacher began writing on the board. Malik tried to focus, but his eyes kept darting around the room, watching people exist without him.
A few minutes later, the teacher stopped and flipped through the attendance sheet.
"Before we begin properly," he said, "let's take attendance."
Malik straightened.
Relief washed over him. This will fix it.
Names were called.
"Sayyid?"
"Here."
"Sam?"
"Here."
Malik leaned forward, heart pounding.
"…Malik?"
Silence.
The teacher frowned. "Malik isn't here today?"
Malik shot his hand into the air so fast his shoulder ached.
"I'm here!" he said loudly. "I'm right here!"
No one reacted.
He stood up. "Sir, I'm here!"
The teacher sighed, making a note. "Alright. Mark him absent."
Malik felt something crack inside his chest.
"What?" he whispered. "No—no, I'm standing right here!"
Sayyid leaned toward Sam, his face tight with worry.
"I'll call him," Sayyid said. "Maybe he overslept."
Malik laughed sharply. "Are you serious?"
He rushed toward them, standing directly in front of their desks.
"Guys," he said urgently, "this isn't funny anymore. I don't know what kind of joke this is, but stop it."
Sayyid pulled out his phone.
Malik stared at it.
"That's my ringtone," he whispered.
The phone rang.
Sayyid nod. "It's ringing."
Malik's heart slammed painfully against his ribs.
"Of course it's ringing," Malik snapped. "I'm right here!"
Sayyid answered the call. "Hello?"
Malik leaned closer, listening.
"Yeah, this is Sayyid. Who's this?"
Malik's breath caught.
"What do you mean 'who's this'?"
he whispered. "You called me."
Sayyid's expression shifted. "Wait… you're not Malik?"
Sam looked up sharply. "What?"
Sayyid put the phone on speaker. "Sorry—who am I speaking to?"
There was a brief pause.
Then a voice filled the room. Calm. Strained. Adult.
"This is a relative of Malik," the voice said. "You're his classmate, right?"
Malik staggered back.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no."
Sayyid swallowed hard. "Yes… yes, I am. Is Malik there?"
The pause stretched painfully long.
"I'm sorry," the voice said at last. "Malik passed away this morning."
The words hit Malik like a blade.
Dead.
He is dead.
The phone slipped from Sayyid's hand and clattered onto the desk.
Sam stared at him, eyes wide. "What did they say?"
Sayyid's voice shook. "They said… Malik is dead."
The classroom erupted into shocked murmurs.
"That's impossible."
"He was here yesterday."
"No way."
"How can it be."
Malik clutched his head, shaking it violently.
"No," he whispered. "I'm right here. I'm standing right here."
The voice continued from the fallen phone, muffled but clear enough.
"The burial will be held at his house today."
Something inside Malik collapsed completely.
He looked down at his hands.
Transparent.
He looked at his desk.
Empty.
The chair untouched.
No bag. No books.
No sign that he had ever sat there at all.
Understanding crashed into him like a wave.
The water that passed through him.
The way no one responded.
The way his body feels lighter.
The way the world had already decided he didn't exist.
"Oh," Malik breathed.
His knees buckled.
He sank to the floor, though no one noticed.
Dead.
The word echoed endlessly.
He pressed his palms to his face, but felt nothing.
"This is cruel. I'm only nineteen," he whispered.
Sayyid buried his face in his hands.
Sam stared at Malik's empty seat, tears gathering in his eyes.
The class was already mourning him.
Malik pushed himself up suddenly, panic surging.
"No," he said hoarsely. "No, I can't stay here. I'm not dead"
He turned and ran.
Through desks.
Through the door.
Through walls that offered no resistance.
He bolted down the hallway, his footsteps silent, his breaths unnecessary but frantic.
Students passed through him without noticing.
Teachers didn't see him.
The world kept moving.
Behind him, his name was being spoken in whispers and disbelief.
Ahead of him, there was only fear.
And somewhere far away, in a house filled with grief, his mother was holding a body that looked just like him—while the real Malik ran, terrified and unseen, finally understanding why no one ever answered when he called out.