The Paused Clock – Casual (Revised)

The rooftop air hit Haasbi like a mix of tar and car fumes and that sticky Brooklyn smell that grips into him as always. He leaned against the rusty stairs railing, sneakers nudging loose gravel, eyes looking at the jagged skyline. Below the city it’s full of the noise of horns blaring, sirens of ambulances in the distance, hip-hop sounds from an open window from the other side. The city that never sleeps was wide awake as people say  New York never sleeps. It was September 2023, senior year at Brooklyn School for Math and Research and life was supposed to be racing forward. But up here on his apartment building’s rooftop Haasbi felt trapped in 2020, caught in a loop like where time refused to move forward. A stray siren sliced through the noise, sharp as a memory, pinning him back to those days.

He would start coming here when COVID-19 flipped everything. Back then it was him, his mom, dad, and two younger siblings crammed into their fourth floor apartment. Online school was a complete mess, laptops lagging, teachers talking like glitchy robots, the Wi-Fi dropping thanks to Optimum’s special service. The city was ghost-town completely full only by the sounds of the ambulances all around. Haasbi would climb the fire escape to this roof, staring at a skyline as stuck as he felt. Lockdown blurred into masks, sanitizer, and a key he would wear on a string since he was twelve, his old front door key, a relic from before the world shut down, a good-luck charm he couldn’t let go. He would tell himself it would end. It did. But not for him.

Now senior year was in full swing. School was back in person, and Brooklyn School for Math and Research was solid. Haasbi had a crew, Ahmed always cracking jokes, and Angel forever scheming something dumb. They kept it lively always messing around in the lunchroom or dragging him to watch basketball. High school beat Zoom days hands down. But Haasbi’s head stayed stuck. COVID-19 felt like yesterday, not three years ago. That key hung heavy around his neck reminding him of the past.

Tonight he was solo up here. Downstairs his family was at it mom cooking something spicy that made his stomach growl, dad glued to the TV, siblings bickering over homework. Their voices drifted up faint but warm like a distant radio. Haasbi kicked a rock like those little ones which are always on the roof watching it skitter across the roof beside a weathered soccer ball from FIFA 2018. The city thrummed subways rumbling, Church Avenue buzzing with vendors and sneakers on pavement but a stray mask on the ground or a random cough sent him spinning back to 2020. Heart racing, palms sweaty, like the world might lock down again and a sense oh horror. 

School was the bright spot. Last week Ahmed and Angel had dragged him into the gym after hours. The place was dim just the hum of the overhead lights and the squeak of their sneakers on the new polished floor. Ahmed had lobbed a basketball at him grinning, “Yo, Haasbi, stop daydreaming! catch!” Haasbi snagged it mid-air, smirking as he dribbled past Ahmed’s lazy defense. Angel meanwhile was plotting louder, bouncing another ball off the wall. “Bet we could sneak into Lincoln High’s court next time, scope their playbook, imagine their coach’s face when we roll up!” Ahmed snorted, “Man, you would trip over your own laces before we got past the gate.” Haasbi laughed, sinking a clean shot from the free-throw line, the echo of the ball drowning out the quiet in his head. For a moment, he would feel light, untouchable.

Angel jogged over, slapping his shoulder. “See? You still got it, Haasbi—lockdown didn’t take your jumper.” Ahmed chimed in, “Yeah, but it took your fashion sense—those sweats are screaming 2020.” Haasbi shoved him, grinning, “Says the guy rocking knockoff Jordans.” They kept at it trading shots and jabs, until the janitor’s flashlight cut through the dark. “Out, now!” the guy barked, and they bolted, Ahmed cackling, “Worth it, bro!” as they spilled into the night. Walking home alone, though, the silence crept back lockdown vibes, him and that key, the city on pause. He couldn’t tell them. They would just say, “Chill, it’s over.” It was. He just… wasn’t.

He dropped to the roof, back against the railing, and scrolled his phone. Old Zoom screenshots popped up classmates trolling, him and his siblings making dumb faces, a rooftop selfie with a dead skyline. His chest tightened, like those days still had him. Senior year was flying college apps piling up, prom talk in the halls, a tight crew but he was still that kid up here, waiting for something to shift.

A gust rattled the railing. The F train screeched below, lights cutting the dark. Haasbi closed his eyes, hearing his dad’s old line: “We got this, baba.” Family was good. He had people. So why was he frozen? Why was yesterday louder than today?

He gripped the key, warm from his hand. Angel had said once, over fries at the corner spot, “You’re a beast, man we made it through that madness.” Ahmed had nodded, “For real, you’re still here.” They weren’t wrong. The city was loud, gritty, alive, not waiting for him to catch up. Maybe he could roll with it.

Haasbi stood, pocketing his phone. The skyline stretched raw and real daring him to keep pace. He took a breath, the key swinging loose. It wasn’t 2020, even if his brain lagged. He would head downstairs, grab some of the food, and hit up Ahmed about tomorrow. One step at a time. Time had to move eventually, right?

Downstairs, chaos greeted him. His brother yelled, “Give me the remote, Amina—it’s my turn!” His sister snapped back, “You had it all day, idiot!” Mom’s voice cut through the sizzle of her cooking, “Cut it out, both of you, or no dessert!” Haasbi smirked, slipping into the kitchen. The spicy warmth of her stew hit him hard, grounding him. Dad chuckled at some old rerun, his laugh filling the room. Haasbi grabbed a plate, piling it high as his mom slid beside him, wiping her hands on a towel. “Have you sent that app to SUNY yet?” she asked, eyebrows raised. Haasbi shrugged, “Working on it,” and she rolled her eyes, smiling. “Better be you’re not staying here eating my food forever.”

His brother darted in, snagging a piece of bread off the counter. “Haasbi’s too slow—bet he’s still writing ‘2020’ on his apps,” he teased, dodging mom’s playful swat. Amina followed, smirking, “Yeah, he’s probably applying to Zoom University.” Haasbi flicked a napkin at her, “Keep talking, I will eat your share.” It was loud, messy, the good kind of noise—the kind that felt like home.

He let the key slip under his shirt. Tomorrow, Ahmed and Angel would drag him into something—hoops, maybe one of Angel’s wild plans. His phone buzzed mid-bite—Ahmed: “Yo, game tomorrow, you in?” Haasbi grinned, typing, “Bet.” The key rested against his chest, just metal now, not a weight. He wasn’t fully out of yesterday, but today was loud enough to pull him along.

Before bed, he stopped by his window, glancing at the roof. That spot had been his escape, a place to wrestle the quiet. He fingered the key, its edges worn smooth from years of handling. What if he took it off? Dropped it into a drawer, let it sit? His hand hovered, then fell. Not yet. But the thought lingered, lighter than before. The city was too alive to stay still, and he had too much going on to keep sitting there. He shrugged, closing the curtain. Time to bounce.

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the blinds. His phone lit up group chat with Ahmed and Angel, already plotting the day’s chaos. He stretched, the key shifting against his skin. For the first time in a while, it didn’t feel heavy. He grabbed his sneakers, ready for whatever came next. The city was out there, and so was he. 

Reflection

When I started this story I aimed to show a teen stuck in the past. The idea grew from thinking about COVID’s impact on people my age. Early on I placed Haasbi on a rooftop overlooking Brooklyn. Initial drafts had too many events like conflicts or romance. Feedback from peers helped me focus on Haasbi’s inner world. That shift improved the story’s core.

By the third week I worked on details like street sounds and home cooking to make Brooklyn tangible. The key symbol came from reflecting on items I kept from lockdown. It fit Haasbi naturally. Writing his friends felt smooth since their dialogue echoed real conversations. Balancing their voices with Haasbi’s quiet moments was harder. Early versions had too much dialogue which hid his thoughts. Trimming excess helped clarify his struggle. I’m still practicing how to use silence effectively.

Revising taught me a lot. I shortened rooftop scenes for focus and deepened family moments to show Haasbi’s support. The ending changed from fully resolved to more open which suited his gradual progress. I’m pleased Haasbi feels like a real person not just a way to discuss COVID. That shows my growth.

I moved from overloading the plot to trusting Haasbi and Brooklyn to carry the story. The result is stronger for it. I see now that pacing needs attention and I tend to overexplain. This project showed me I can write stories that feel true. I’m motivated to keep exploring complex characters and settings. Working on this made my approach clearer and more confident.