The Afternoon Roar

A strange sound, a still room, and a moment that I just can’t explain

4 min read

Just now

I woke up to a strange sound breaking the stillness of my hostel room. It was a weekend afternoon, the kind where the corridors were silent and everyone was either sleeping, loafing around or pretending to study. I lay on my bed, half-asleep, with my eyes closed. The sun was slipping through the curtains in thin yellow lines.

At first, the sound was soft, like a faraway hum. I thought it was just a vehicle outside. But with every passing second, it grew louder. A slow, rising roar. My mind tried to place it. A truck? A generator?

No. It was an airplane.

The realization hit me like cold water. My college wasn’t even close to an airport. No planes ever came this low. But this one sounded as if it was right above the hostel.

I tried to sit up. I couldn’t.

My arms stayed glued to the bed. My legs refused to move. My chest felt heavy, as if an invisible weight pressed down on me. Panic crawled into my throat. I tried again, nothing. It felt like my body had turned into stone.

The roar grew deeper, angrier. The window began to tremble. The metal frame shook as if the whole building were vibrating with the sound. My heart raced, but I still couldn’t move. I couldn't even turn my head to check outside.

Then I heard it, air slicing through the sky. Fast. Too fast.

The airplane was coming down.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to jump out of the bed, run, hide, anything. But my body stayed frozen. It was like I was trapped between a dream and reality, but everything felt real. The air, the heat, the fear, they were all real.

The roar became deafening. The walls seemed to pulse with the noise. I felt the shockwave before I saw anything. A violent thud shook the ground. My bed jerked. The room went dark for a split second. I felt the world collapsing inwards.

And still, I couldn't move.

I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting the crash to swallow me whole. This was it. My last moment. I accepted it. I let my breath slow. If this was the end, then maybe surrendering was easier than fighting a losing battle. A strange peace washed over me, a quiet acceptance that my time had come.

But then… nothing happened.

The roar began to fade. The tremble in the walls softened. The air grew still again. A new sound replaced the chaos, the soft whirring of a ceiling fan above me.

I opened my eyes.

My room was untouched. No smoke. No broken walls. No wreckage. Just the same plain hostel room I had seen hundreds of times.

But my body, still, wouldn’t move.

My heart hammered now for a different reason. I was awake. Fully awake. But trapped. My breathing quickened. I tried to wiggle my fingers. Even they refused.

A whisper escaped my lips, even if I wasn’t sure I had moved them.
Am I dead?

Minutes passed. Or maybe only seconds. Time felt twisted. I waited, helpless, staring at the same spot on the ceiling, trying not to panic again.

And then it happened.

My right toe twitched.

It was small, almost nothing, but it was mine. Then my fingers loosened. The weight on my chest lifted. My arms, heavy as they were, finally obeyed. I took a long breath as control slowly returned. At last, I turned my head toward the window.

Outside, the sky was quiet.

I pushed myself up and sat on the bed, breathing hard. Sweat clung to my forehead. My heart still felt like it was running a race.

Only one truth remained,
None of it was real.

The plane. The crash. The shaking room. The acceptance of death.
It had all been a dream, one born from exhaustion, stress, and my restless mind. When I couldn’t move, I wasn’t dying. I was experiencing sleep paralysis.

Hours of sleepless nights. Weeks of mental pressure. Days of ignoring my tired body. All of it had led me here, stuck between nightmare and reality, convinced I was taking my last breath.

I sat still for a while longer, letting the relief settle in. Then I stood up and stretched, feeling the full weight of what I had just gone through.

That afternoon taught me something important,
If we don’t take care of our minds and bodies, they will find their own frightening ways to warn us.

Sleep, peace, balance, these aren’t luxuries. They’re survival.