Dial 999 for Your Future Self

Dial 999 for Your Future Self

By Hasnain Shah

It started with a sticker on the inside of a bus shelter. The kind you usually ignore—cheap print, curled edges, probably someone’s attempt to advertise miracle weight-loss pills or forbidden streaming sites. But this one caught my eye because it said only four words:

DIAL 999 FOR FUTURE YOU.

Nothing else. No website. No tiny print. No branding. Just that strange instruction.

I laughed out loud at first. The bus was late, and I was tired, and something about the absurdity of it felt like a private joke the universe was telling at my expense. But the longer I stared at the sticker, the more uncomfortable I felt. A knot tightened in my stomach. It wasn’t the message—it was the feeling that someone had left it there for me, specifically.

By the time the bus finally arrived, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

That night, after a dinner of cereal and scrolling aimlessly through messages I didn't have the energy to reply to, I picked up my phone. The glow of the screen lit the dark room, casting soft shadows over the clothes I’d meant to fold days ago.

I typed 9… 9… 9…

I hesitated.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered. But my thumb pressed CALL anyway.

The phone rang once.

Then twice.

Then—

“Hello?” a voice said.

My breath caught in my throat.

Because the voice… it was mine. Older, raspier, but unmistakably me.

“I—uh—hi,” I stammered. “This is going to sound strange, but I think I’m talking to my future self?”

A soft laugh. “Yes. You are. Twenty years ahead, to be exact. I’ve been waiting for this call.”

The room suddenly felt smaller. “You’ve been waiting?”

“Of course,” the older-me said. “You only call once.”

I swallowed hard. My mind raced with possibilities—lottery numbers, career advice, warnings about terrible relationships. Everything a person thinks they’d ask if they had even a minute with their future self.

“So…” I said, voice trembling. “What should I know? What do I need to avoid? What’s the most important advice you can give me?”

There was a long pause. Too long.

“Don’t take the job,” future-me finally said.

“What job?” I asked. “I don’t have a job offer.”

“You will. Tomorrow.”

I blinked in the darkness. Future-me sounded tired, like someone who had lived through things I couldn't even imagine.

“I’m actually excited for tomorrow,” I admitted. “I have an interview—one I’ve been preparing weeks for.”

“I know,” the voice said softly. “That’s the one. Don’t take it.”

My heart sank. “But this job… it’s supposed to change everything. It’s stable. It pays well. It makes sense.”

“Exactly,” future-me whispered. “It makes sense. But it won’t make you happy.”

Heat flared in my chest. “Easy for you to say. You’ve already lived through it.”

“That’s why I am saying it.”

I frowned at the floor. “Okay then—if not that job, then what? What career should I choose? Who should I date? Where should I live? Give me something useful.”

Another long silence.

“Live,” future-me said.

I blinked. “That’s it?”

“Yes. Live. Stop waiting for life to start. Stop assuming every next step is the right one just because other people say it is. You only ever try to make the safest choice. And safety isn’t living.”

I felt frustration rising. “You’re not telling me anything concrete.”

A sigh crackled through the line. “Concrete advice ruins people. You must choose your own life. Not repeat mine.”

I didn’t know what to say. Anger and confusion tangled in my chest.

“Look,” I said sharply, “if you’re really my future self, tell me something only I would know.”

Future-me chuckled. “You think verification will help you trust me? Fine. When you were fourteen, you wrote a letter to yourself and hid it behind the third loose tile in your mother’s bathroom. You said you hoped your future self would be brave.”

My knees wobbled. I sat on the edge of the bed.

“I never told anyone about that,” I whispered.

“I know,” future-me said. “That’s the problem.”

The phone line grew quieter, like the voice was drifting away.

“I can’t give you instructions,” it said softly. “If I do, you’ll make every decision based on fear of messing up. I called you once too, twenty years ago. And I asked for concrete advice. I was furious when I didn’t get it.”

My chest tightened. “Then why tell me not to take the job?”

A brittle pause.

“Because that was the one mistake I wished I could undo for you,” future-me said. “You lose more than time in that job. You lose yourself. I’m trying to give you back something, not take your choices away.”

The line began to crackle. The voice weakened.

“I have to go,” future-me murmured. “This call doesn’t last long. But remember this—your life isn’t supposed to look like mine. Change it. Be braver than I was.”

“Wait!” I cried. “Does everything turn out okay? Do I become someone I can be proud of?”

There was a small, sad smile in the voice.

“That depends on what you do tomorrow.”

The call cut off.

I stared at my phone long after the screen went dark.

And for the first time in years, I felt my life shifting—quietly, subtly—like the future was no longer something happening to me, but something I could finally choose.