It was an ordinary Tuesday, or so I thought.Maybe it was October, the thing is I really don't remember but that happened on that day for sure. Sometime you really don't know. But still it happens....now what's next may be strange
The morning sunlight filtered weakly through my bedroom curtains, painting soft gold lines across the cluttered floor. My phone buzzed against the nightstand, vibrating in that erratic way that suggested a notification more personal than a calendar reminder. I reached over, still half-asleep, expecting the usual spam email or a motivational quote from the app I never asked for.
Instead, I saw a message that stopped my heart.
From: Unknown Number
Message: "I know what you did. Meet me at 6 p.m. at Pier 17. Come alone."
I sat up. The words blurred, not from sleep but disbelief. I re-read the message a dozen times. It was short. No name. No context. Just a threat wrapped in mystery.
I hadn’t done anything—had I? Nothing illegal. Nothing dark, at least not in the criminal sense. I was a high school English teacher with overdue bills and a cat named Waffles. But everyone had secrets, right?
Mine just happened to be buried in the past.
---
The day crept forward like a snail with stage fright. I taught three classes, graded two essays, and smiled through a staff meeting, all while my mind raced. Who knew? And what did they know?
By 5:30 p.m., I found myself parked two blocks from Pier 17, watching the river reflect the pinks and purples of the setting sun. My hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel. I could still drive away. Forget this happened. Block the number and pretend it was a wrong message.
But curiosity is a dangerous thing. Especially when mixed with guilt.
---
The pier was nearly empty. A few joggers, a guy with a guitar, a woman tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons. I walked slowly, scanning every face, every shadow.
Then I saw her.
She leaned against the railing, facing the water. Long black coat, red scarf, dark hair pulled into a braid. She turned when I approached, and I froze.
"Hello, Emily," she said.
I hadn’t heard that voice in over ten years.
"Maya?"
She nodded.
Maya Thomas. My college roommate. My best friend. My almost sister. The last time I saw her was the night everything fell apart—when I left town without saying goodbye, after that accident that neither of us were ever supposed to speak of again.
"How did you—why now?" I stammered.
"I’ve been looking for you for years," she said calmly. "And last week, I finally found something. An article about a teacher winning a state writing contest. Your photo was in it. Same smile. Same eyes."
My chest tightened. I didn’t know what scared me more—being found, or realizing I was glad to be.
"You sent that message?"
She nodded. "Dramatic, I know. But I figured you wouldn’t show up otherwise."
"You said you know what I did."
Her eyes didn’t flinch. "I do."
Silence fell between us, thick with memory.
Ten years ago, we’d been driving back from a party. I was behind the wheel. It was raining. There was laughter, loud music, maybe a drink too many. A bend in the road. A flash of headlights. And then—
A body. A mangled bike. A scream that wasn’t ours.
We didn’t wait. We didn’t check. We drove away. Two girls, terrified. And I—I—disappeared the next morning. No contact. No explanation.
"You left me to deal with it alone," she said now, voice tight. "The guilt. The police. The questions."
"What happened?" I asked. "I never found out."
Maya looked out at the water, her face unreadable. "The cyclist lived. Broken arm. Concussion. No memory of the incident. The case was never solved. But I confessed. Said I thought I hit something but didn’t stop. They gave me community service. I lived with that for years, Emily."
My throat burned. "I’m sorry. I—I was a coward."
"Yes," she said simply. "You were."
I swallowed hard. "So why now? After all this time?"
"Because I need to know who you are now. I need to know if you still hide from the truth or if you’re ready to face it. I don’t want revenge. I want closure."
"And if I say I’m ready?"
She turned to me then, eyes glinting. "Then you’ll come with me. We’re meeting the man we hit. His name is Jordan. He agreed to talk. He wants to hear from both of us."
I felt my legs weaken. I had buried this for so long. Built a life on silence and shame. But here was a chance—not for erasure, but for redemption.
I nodded. "Okay. I’ll come."
---
We walked side by side down the pier, not as friends yet, but not as strangers either.
Sometimes, an unexpected message doesn’t destroy your life.
Sometimes, it hands you a second chance.
And when it does—
You don’t run.
You ask yourself the only question that matters:
What will you do next?
And then— I'll do it.
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