The Blanket and Time

Time has a quiet way of teaching us how life transforms, how roles shift, and seasons change within the same four walls.

I remember my school days vividly—winter nights when I would cocoon myself completely under the blanket, head to toe, the glow of my phone screen illuminating my hidden world. Movie after movie I'd watch, lost in stories while the cold night air stayed locked outside my warm fortress. My mother would be sleeping peacefully beside me, unaware of the adventures unfolding beneath the covers.

Now, the scene has reversed like a gentle mirror held up to time itself.

Tonight, I watched my mother do exactly what I once did. She lay beside me, wrapped completely in her blanket—head to toe—the faint light from her phone creating the same soft glow I remember. She was absorbed in her favourite serials, finding comfort in her stories, just as I once found mine.

But I wasn't watching movies anymore. I sat at my study table, surrounded by work, my mind constantly churning through tasks and responsibilities. The luxury of hours disappearing into films has become a distant memory. These days, relaxation itself feels like work—my brain never quite settling, never fully at rest.

Now, my "movie time" has shrunk to stolen moments: ten minutes here, fifteen minutes there, scrolling through Instagram reels between tasks. Quick fragments instead of full stories. Efficiency instead of escape.

Seeing my mother under that blanket stirred something in me—a bittersweet recognition of how completely our positions had switched. She has reclaimed the simple pleasure I once took for granted, while I've inherited the busy preoccupations that once kept her from such moments.

Time doesn't just pass. It rearranges us, trades our places, and shows us both what we've lost and what we've become. And sometimes, in the glow of a phone screen beneath a winter blanket, we can see both versions of ourselves at once.

© 𝑴𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒆