It was 2 a.m. when my phone started vibrating nonstop.
Eighteen missed calls from my daughter.
One text message.
“Dad, help! Come fast!!”
My heart nearly stopped. I threw on a jacket, grabbed my keys, and drove like a maniac to her place.
When I burst through the door, my daughter and her fiancé were sitting on the couch, confused.
“Dad? What are you doing here?” she asked.
“You texted me—you said you needed help!” I said, still breathless.
She frowned. “Dad, I never texted you.”
My stomach sank. I pulled out my phone—and froze.
A new message had just come in.
“I remember what you did.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My fingers went numb on the steering wheel as I sat outside their house, staring at the screen.
The number wasn’t saved. Area code—Abingdon. My old hometown.
A place I hadn’t thought about in years.
I deleted the text. Told myself it was a wrong number, maybe a prank. But deep down, I knew better.
When I got home, another message was waiting.
A photo—grainy, old—of me standing in front of my dad’s hardware store in the ‘90s.
Beneath it: “Do you still sleep okay?”
My chest went tight.
I didn’t tell my wife. She’d ask too many questions. And there were parts of my past I’d buried too deep—things I’d never told anyone.
Why I’d never gone back to Abingdon.
Why I lost touch with my high school friends.
Why I still flinched every time someone mentioned 1998.
The texts didn’t stop.
Every night at 2 a.m.—same time, same number.
“You looked away.”
“She cried for help.”
“Do your hands still smell like gasoline?”
By the fourth night, I couldn’t eat or sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face.
Her name was Sarika.
She transferred to our high school junior year—quiet girl, always in oversized hoodies, kept to herself. Her mom had just passed away. She was sweet, smart, too kind for the world she ended up in.
And then there was Collin. My best friend at the time. Son of a local councilman. Mean streak a mile wide. The kind of kid people were scared to say “no” to.
Sarika got paired with him for a chemistry project senior year. I saw how he looked at her—like a challenge he needed to win. She ignored him, and that made him crueler.
The teasing turned into rumors. The rumors turned into harassment.
And I… said nothing.
Then one night, everything went too far.
We were behind the football field, drinking cheap beer. Collin showed up angry—said Sarika had reported him to the principal.
“She wants to mess with me?” he said. “Let’s show her what happens.”
He dragged us to her neighborhood. Told me to wait by the car—said they were just going to egg her house.
Then I smelled gasoline.
I ran to the porch and saw Collin, lighter in one hand, gas can in the other. The porch was soaked.
“Are you insane?” I yelled, shoving him back.
He just laughed.
“Relax, she’s not home.”
I snatched the lighter and threw it into the bushes. Hauled him back to the car. I told him if he ever tried that again, I’d go to the cops.
We never spoke again.
A week later, Sarika was gone. Rumor was she’d moved back to Jersey. No one looked too closely. No one cared enough to ask.
And I buried it. Deep.
Until now.
Because that next message read:
“You didn’t stop him for her. You stopped him for yourself.”
I wanted to call the number, to scream, to apologize—but who would I even be talking to?
I called Collin instead. First time in two decades.
He answered, voice rough. “What do you want?”
“Are you getting any weird messages? About Sarika?”
Silence.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t lie, Collin. Someone’s sending me photos, texts—stuff from back then.”
He went quiet. Then whispered, “She’s dead, Adarsh.”
My whole body went cold.
“What?”
“She died years ago. Got hit by a car. Chicago, I think. I saw the obituary.”
I searched online for hours that night.
There it was—Sarika Patel, 1981–2012.
No photo. No details. Just an empty obituary.
But something about it didn’t sit right.
The next day, a small package arrived at my office.
No return address.
Inside was a USB drive—and a note.
“Watch everything.”
My hands shook as I plugged it in.
Grainy security footage filled the screen.
There I was—seventeen years old—shoving Collin on Sarika’s porch. Throwing the lighter into the bushes.
Then another clip.
Sarika came home later that night.
Her face bruised, eyes swollen. She bent down, picked up the lighter. Looked right into the camera. Whispered something I couldn’t hear.
I sat frozen for an hour.
That night, I finally told my wife everything.
She cried with me. Held my hands as I said the words I’d hidden for half my life.
“I can’t change what I did,” I said. “But maybe I can make it mean something.”
She nodded. “Then start there.”
A few days later, I called the number again.
A man answered this time.
“This is Zubin,” he said. “Sarika’s cousin.”
He told me she’d lived with him after her mom died. That she’d kept journals—pages full of things she never said out loud.
“She wrote about you,” he said softly. “Said you were the only one who didn’t laugh. She wished you’d done more—but she didn’t blame you.”
My voice cracked. “Then why the messages?”
He sighed. “Not to hurt you. To remind you. You’ve built a good life—but you left part of yourself buried in that town. It’s time to face it.”
Then he emailed me something.
A recording.
It was Sarika’s voice.
“Adarsh,” she said quietly, “maybe you think you didn’t do enough. But that night—you stopped him. You were scared, but you still acted. I saw you. I wish I’d been brave enough to stay, but I couldn’t. Not there.”
Her voice trembled.
“I hope you built a life full of love. I hope your daughter never feels the kind of fear I did.”
By the end, I was sobbing.
A week later, I drove back to Abingdon. Met with the school board. Asked about harassment prevention programs. They didn’t have any.
So I started one.
I called it The Sarika Project.
Zubin helped launch it. We hugged, cried, and promised her story wouldn’t be forgotten.
Now, every year, we fund scholarships for students who speak up. We train teachers. We tell the truth.
Last month, my daughter texted me:
“Dad, my friend’s sister got help from The Sarika Project. She says thank you.”
That night, I slept without fear for the first time in years.
The guilt doesn’t vanish—it just finds purpose.
Sometimes the past shakes you awake not to punish you, but to remind you there’s still time to make it right.
So yeah, those 2 a.m. texts terrified me.
But maybe they were never meant to scare me.
Maybe they were meant to save me.
Dedicated and experienced pet-related content writer with a passion for animals and a proven track record of creating engaging and informative content. Skilled in researching, writing, and editing articles that educate and inspire pet owners. Strong knowledge of animal behavior, health, and care, combined with a commitment to delivering high-quality content that resonates with audiences. Seeking to leverage writing skills and passion for pets to contribute to a dynamic and mission-driven team.