I woke up at 2 a.m. to 18 missed calls from my daughter and a text: “Dad, help! Come fast!!” I drove to her home like mad. My daughter and her fiancé looked surprised to see me. She said, “I never texted you!” But as I left their place, I got another text and froze.
It said, “I remember what you did.”

For a second, my hands went ice-cold on the steering wheel. I pulled over. Stared at the screen. There was no name—just a random number. Area code from our old town, two states away.
I hadn’t thought about that place in years.

I deleted the message. It felt like the past playing a trick on me. Maybe a wrong number. Maybe some prank. But when I got home, there was another text waiting.
A photo of me. From the 90s. Standing in front of my dad’s hardware store.
And beneath it: “You still sleep okay?”

Now I was full-on shaking.

I didn’t tell my wife. She’d ask too many questions. And there are some stories I never told her. Like why I never went back to Abingdon after college. Why I cut off my high school friends like dead weight.
Why I always flinch when someone brings up the year 1998.

But the texts didn’t stop. Every night, same time: 2 a.m.
A word. A photo. A phrase.
“You looked the other way.”
“She cried for help.”
“Do your hands still smell like gasoline?”

By the fourth night, I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t stop seeing her face.

Her name was Sarika.

She was new to our high school, moved from Jersey after her mom died. She didn’t talk much. Wore oversized clothes. Sat in the back of class like she was hiding from something.
But she was kind. And smart. Too smart for the boys in my friend group.

We were idiots. Thought we ruled the school just because our parents owned stuff. My best friend back then was Collin—his dad was a town councilman and a bully. I didn’t like half the stuff Collin did, but I never stopped him either.

Then came senior year. Sarika got paired with Collin in chemistry. I remember the way he looked at her—like a dare.
She didn’t fall for him. And that made him worse.

I don’t remember all the things he did—most of them were verbal. Snide comments. Rumors. Making her feel unsafe without ever laying a finger. But one night it went too far.
We were drinking behind the football bleachers. Collin showed up late. Angry. Said Sarika reported him to the principal for harassment.
“She wants a war,” he said. “Let’s give her one.”

He dragged us to the edge of her neighborhood. Told me to wait by the car. Said they were just going to egg her house.
But the smell of gasoline hit my nose five minutes later.

I ran toward the house and saw Collin with a can in one hand and a lighter in the other. Sarika’s front porch was already soaked.
I screamed at him. Shoved him. He laughed.

“Relax,” he said. “She’s not even home. I checked.”

I threw the lighter into the bushes before he could. Hauled him back to the car. Told him if he ever pulled that again, I’d go straight to the cops.
We never spoke after that night.

Sarika left school a week later. Some said she moved back to Jersey. Some said she dropped out.

No one really looked for her.

And I buried it. Deep.

Now, decades later, I was staring at a message that said, “You didn’t throw the lighter because of her. You did it to save yourself.”

My stomach turned. I wanted to call the number, apologize, beg for peace. But I didn’t even know who it was.
So I replied: “Who are you?”

No answer.

I called Collin that morning. First time in 20 years. His number still worked. He sounded groggy.

“What the hell do you want?” he muttered.

“Have you been getting any texts?”

He paused. “What?”

“Texts. About… back then. Sarika.”

Dead silence.

Then: “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me, man. Someone’s sending me things. Photos. Messages. I think—maybe it’s her.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s dead, Adarsh.”

I nearly dropped the phone.

“What?”

“She died. Years ago. Hit by a car in Chicago. I read it online.”

I Googled like a madman after that. Found an obituary. Same name. Same age. No photo. Died in 2012. No family listed.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling something was off.

The next day, a package arrived at my office. No return address. Inside: a USB drive.
And a note: “Watch everything.”

My hands were sweating as I plugged it into my computer.

It was video. Grainy. Security footage.

It showed me. At seventeen. Shoving Collin on Sarika’s porch. Tossing the lighter.
My heart stopped.

The camera had been hidden in the bushes.

I watched the whole thing. Shaking.

Then a second clip played.
From the next night.

Sarika, coming home. Her face swollen. Crying.
She picked up the lighter from the bush. Stared at it. Then stared straight into the camera.
And whispered something I couldn’t hear.

I sat frozen for a full hour.

That night, I told my wife everything.
She just held me and cried.

“I can’t fix this,” I said.
“But maybe I can find whoever sent this. Maybe I can at least say sorry.”

She nodded. “Then start there.”

I tried calling the number again. This time, someone picked up.

A man.

He said his name was Zubin. He was Sarika’s cousin.

“She lived with us after her mom passed,” he said. “That town broke her. But she never stopped writing. She kept a journal. I didn’t read it until after she died.”

My throat closed up.

“She wrote about you,” he said. “Said you were the only one who didn’t laugh. Said she wished you’d done more—but she didn’t blame you.”

“I should’ve done more,” I whispered.

Zubin was quiet. “She forgave you a long time ago.”

“Then why the texts?”

He sighed. “Not to hurt you. To wake you up. You live this shiny life—wife, daughter, business. But you left a girl in the dark. And it eats at you, doesn’t it?”

I didn’t say anything.

He continued. “She recorded tapes. Letters she never sent. One of them’s for you.”

He emailed me the file that night.

I sat on the back porch and listened with shaking hands.

It was her voice.

Soft. Still carrying that Jersey edge.

“Adarsh… maybe you thought you didn’t do enough. Maybe you’re right. But you stopped him. That night, you stopped something terrible. And I saw you. I saw the fear in your eyes. I saw you shaking.”

She paused.

“I wish I had the strength to stay. But I couldn’t. I left not because of you—but because no one else stood up.”

Another pause.

“I hope you built a good life. I hope your daughter grows up safe. I hope she never feels what I did.”

By the time it ended, I was full-on sobbing.

The next morning, I made a decision.

I took a week off work and drove back to Abingdon. Went to the high school. Asked if they had any programs for harassment prevention. They didn’t.
So I started one.

I called it The Sarika Project.

Zubin came down to speak at the launch. We hugged for the first time. Both cried.

Over the next year, we raised money for students who reported abuse but didn’t have the resources to fight back. Set up scholarships.
I went to therapy. Started telling the truth about my past.

Collin? Last I heard, he’d run for city council. Lost by a landslide. Karma’s a quiet thing.

And my daughter?

She texted me a few weeks ago: “Dad, I told my friend about The Sarika Project. She said her sister was helped by it. She says thank you.”

Sometimes, the weight doesn’t fully leave you. But it gets lighter when you use it to lift someone else.

So yeah—those 2 a.m. texts shook my world. But maybe that’s what I needed. To wake up.

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