The Message That Arrived Tomorrow

Naina didn’t believe in signs.

Not lucky numbers, not fate, not the idea that the universe had a plan. Life, to her, was simple — study, work, sleep, repeat.

Until the messages began.

The first one arrived at exactly 11:11 p.m.

Unknown number.

You forgot your umbrella today again.

She frowned. She hadn’t stepped outside all day.

Probably a wrong number.

She ignored it.

The next night, 11:11 again.

You’ll miss the bus if you leave at 8:32. Leave at 8:29. Trust me.

Annoyed, she muted the chat.

Morning came. She left at her usual time — 8:32.

And watched the bus drive away just as she reached the stop.

She stared at it, then slowly checked her phone.

The message.

A strange uneasiness settled in her chest.

That night she replied.

Who is this?

At 11:11, the phone vibrated instantly.

You won’t recognize my name yet.

Her fingers paused.

Are you stalking me?

After a moment:

No. I’m remembering you.

She almost blocked the number — but curiosity won.

Days passed.

Each night, 11:11.

Sometimes small things:

Take the longer road today. You’ll like it.

She did — and discovered a quiet bookstore she soon loved.

Sometimes personal:

You hum when you concentrate. You don’t notice it.

She froze reading that one.

It was true.

Weeks turned into a routine she secretly waited for.

Her day ended… when the message arrived.

One evening she typed before time.

What do you want from me?

11:11.

Nothing. I just don’t want to lose you again.

Her heartbeat quickened.

We never met.

A long pause.

Longer than ever before.

Then:

Not yet. For you.

She sat up.

Explain.

The typing dots appeared… disappeared… appeared again.

I’m texting from two years ahead.

She laughed out loud.

Okay time traveler.

But the next message changed everything.

Tomorrow you’ll drop coffee on your presentation notes at 10:14. Print another copy tonight.

She didn’t.

At 10:14, coffee slipped from her hand.

Exactly as written.

Her hands trembled.

That night she didn’t wait.

Who are you?

11:11.

Someone who sat beside you every morning for six months… before you moved away.

Her breath caught.

We met at the bookstore you found. You asked me to recommend something hopeful.

Her chest tightened.

And then?

Long pause.

You promised we’d meet again at the same place after two years.

Her fingers hovered.

Did we?

No reply.

Another minute passed.

Then finally:

I’m still waiting there.

Her eyes filled unexpectedly.

Then why text me?

The reply came slowly.

Because yesterday… you never arrived.

Silence swallowed the room.

What happened?

The typing dots flickered weakly.

You changed jobs. Different city. We lost contact. I found your old number records and realized — this is the only time I can reach you before that decision.

Her chest tightened painfully.

So you’re… alone?

A longer pause than ever before.

Yeah. But I had to try once more. Even if it only becomes a memory for me.

Tears blurred her vision.

Where are you right now?

The bookstore. Same corner table.

She looked at the time.

11:18 p.m.

Her heart pounded.

The bookstore closed at midnight.

She grabbed her jacket and ran.

The streets were cold and nearly empty. Her breath formed small clouds as she hurried under streetlights she had walked past a hundred times without noticing.

The bookstore door chimed as she entered.

Only one person sat inside.

A man looked up — confused, tired… hopeful.

Their eyes met.

Her phone vibrated.

11:11 p.m.

One final message.

Thank you for coming back.

She slowly lowered the phone.

“You text late,” she said softly.

He smiled — relief breaking across his face.

“You always read late.”

They stood there for a moment that felt strangely familiar… like remembering the future instead of the past.

And this time — neither of them left.