Text From Future

The first text arrives at 11:47 p.m., from an unknown number.

Don’t take the bus tomorrow.

I assume it’s a prank. Someone from school, maybe. Still, when I reply who is this? the answer comes instantly.

It’s you. I don’t have much time. Please listen.

Over the next week, the messages keep coming—always late, always frantic. They mention things only I would know: the scar on my knee, Mom’s burnt lasagna, the password I never told anyone. The sender grows more desperate.

I remember the sound. Metal folding like paper.
I remember thinking I could have walked.

I start biking to school. Staying home sick. The texts soften, briefly. Good. Thank you. Then, last night, a final message breaks through.

You can’t avoid it forever. Tomorrow is the last chance.

This morning, my phone is silent. No warnings. No pleading. I stand at the bus stop anyway, annoyed at myself for believing any of it. The doors hiss open. I step inside.

My phone vibrates at 11:47 p.m.

A new message drafts itself under my name.

Don’t take the bus tomorrow.