The Night I Met the Version of Me I Buried at 13

I don't remember falling asleep. One minute, I was staring at the ceiling, the soft hum of my fan blending with the occasional siren echoing outside. Next, I was walking barefoot through a forest I didn’t recognize, moonlight painting silver paths between tall, black trees. It wasn’t scary. It was... familiar.

I didn’t know where I was going until I saw him.

He was sitting on a tree stump, hunched over, picking at the hem of his hoodie. My hoodie. Faded blue, sleeves too long, the front pocket stretched from years of shoving hands and secrets inside.

I stopped walking. My chest clenched.

He looked up. My breath caught.

It was me.

Thirteen-year-old me.

Same soft features. Same restless fingers. Same eyes that looked far older than they should’ve at that age.

I wanted to run. Not out of fear, but shame. That version of me he was raw. Untouched by the walls I later built. I had buried him beneath years of pretending. Pretending I was fine. Pretending nothing hurt. Pretending I wasn’t still angry at people who never apologized.

He tilted his head. “Took you long enough.”

My voice came out shaky. “What is this?”

He shrugged. “Call it a dream. Or maybe, a confrontation.”

I stepped closer, my feet silent against the soft forest floor. “Why now?”

“You’re tired of pretending. You miss being real.” His eyes narrowed. “You miss being me.”

I sat down across from him. It was strange how small he looked now. But his presence filled the space with something heavy.

“I didn’t bury you,” I said. “I grew up.”

He laughed bitterly. “No. You shut me up. You told me to stop crying when it hurt. You taught me to nod and smile when people lied. You locked the door when I screamed inside.”

I looked away. The trees rustled like they agreed with him.

“I had to survive,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said, softer now. “But you didn’t have to erase me.”

Silence stretched between us, the kind that weighs more than words. I wanted to tell him I missed his honesty, his curiosity, his open heart. But I had wrapped myself in layers so thick, I wasn’t sure if I still knew how to peel them off.

He looked at me gently. “Do you remember that night?”

“Which one?”

“The night you cried under your blanket because someone laughed at your story in class. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You said it was stupid to care.”

I nodded. I remembered. My teacher hadn’t noticed the mockery, and I had smiled like I was in on the joke. But that night, I had curled up in the dark, fists clenched around the paper where I’d written something I believed in.

“I didn’t want to feel weak.”

“You weren’t weak,” he said. “You were real.”

I blinked, and tears welled up unexpected, uninvited. I hadn’t cried in years. Not like this. Not without holding back.

“I missed you,” I said, voice breaking. “I forgot what it was like to feel everything and still hope anyway.”

He smiled. It wasn’t smug. It was full of something deeper. Forgiveness.

“I never left,” he said. “You just stopped visiting.”

I reached out. He took my hand. It was warm. Familiar. And for the first time in years, I felt whole.

He stood up. “You don’t have to be him again. But don’t forget him. Don’t forget me.”

I nodded.

Then he said something I didn’t expect.

“You’re doing okay.”

I looked at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. You’ve been carrying so much, and you're still standing. That counts for something.”

The forest began to blur around the edges. He started to fade with it.

“Will I see you again?” I asked.

He grinned. “I think you already know where to find me now.”

I woke up with tear stains on my pillow and a feeling I couldn’t explain. Not sadness. Not joy. Something in between. Something like... relief.

That morning, I found the old notebook I used to write in at thirteen. It was buried deep in a drawer under forgotten things. I flipped through the pages, and there he was raw, bold, honest.

The version of me I buried.

And the version I was ready to welcome back.

Not to take over.

But to walk beside me.

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Submitted By: Shinwari Khan

Contact: [email protected]

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