The clubroom still smelled faintly of whiteboard markers and floor polish when Mr. Bakshi walked in, clipboard tucked under his arm and a water bottle in hand. The students quieted instinctively. Some straightened up; others leaned forward just a little, already curious.
He gave a small smile as he set the bottle down beside a stack of freshly printed pamphlets.
"I'm not big on dramatic introductions," he said, his voice even and clear. "So I'll keep it simple."
He flipped to the top sheet on his clipboard.
"Tomorrow, I want one page. Doesn't matter what genre—memory, fiction, poem, even a list if that's your thing. But title it Things We Carry. Write what stays with you. Even when you try to forget. That's the only rule."
A brief hush followed, like the idea had dropped a pebble in still water.
Deepak raised a hand with zero hesitation. "Sir, can we write about hostel trauma? Like... emotional damage caused by my roommate's playlist at 3 a.m.?"
Mr. Bakshi smirked. "If that's what you carry, write it."
A wave of laughter broke out across the room. Even Anaya chuckled softly, but her mind had already gone still. Not blank—just still. Like when a calm surface hides the whirlpool underneath.
Her pen moved without her quite realizing.
Things We Carry.
She'd been carrying things for years—quietly, without even writing them down. Maybe now was the time.
Later That Day – At Home
The late afternoon sun spilled lazily across the living room floor as Anaya set down her bag and reached for the water bottle in the fridge. She didn't get two full sips before Meera appeared at the doorway, arms folded, one eyebrow raised in perfect judgment.
"You're not escaping today."
Anaya raised a brow in return. "From what?"
"The Everest behind your cupboard door," Meera said, pointing like a prosecutor toward Anaya's room. "You promised me during midterms. Then after midterms. And now—guess what—it's post-midterms."
Anaya groaned dramatically. "You sound like the start of a true-crime documentary."
Meera smirked. "I'll even do the voiceover. 'In the heart of a suburban bedroom, a brave girl faces the graveyard of forgotten worksheets and socks without pairs—'"
"Okay, okay!" Anaya laughed. "I'll do it. But if I get lost in the past and start crying over old birthday cards, that's on you."
"No tears," Meera warned. "Only garbage bags."
But she ruffled Anaya's hair before walking away.
Cleaning – and a Discovery
The first few layers were easy: a pile of old math notebooks, a tangle of broken pens, a sweater she'd forgotten she owned. She worked in mechanical silence, the kind that came with avoidance disguised as productivity.
But then, buried behind an old shoebox, she saw it: a worn, blue diary with a stitched cloth cover. Her breath caught.
She reached for it slowly, as if it might crumble at her touch.
Her hands went still.
This...
She knew exactly what it was.
The diary she kept after Satiya left. After the goodbye no one saw coming. After the silence that never got explained.
It had frayed corners and a sticker of a crooked star on the front—the kind they used to collect together and stick onto pencil cases. Anaya sank down on the floor, legs crossed, the diary in her lap, the half-cleaned cupboard completely forgotten.
She opened to the second page.
There were tear marks on the ink, the kind she had never bothered to blot back then.
You weren't there. But I still talked to you in my head. I made up your replies. The made-up you still understood me.
Her fingers stilled on the paper. A familiar ache began to press gently against her chest—not sharp, not overwhelming. Just... there. The kind that stayed. The kind you made room for, because pushing it out felt more painful than letting it live inside you.
She kept reading:
At lunch, I pretended you sat across from me, like you always did. I made up your advice. I walked home thinking you were beside me. When I was scared, you were the voice in my head. The you I made up never left. You stayed when everything else changed.
That was the worst part, wasn't it? The not-knowing. No big fight. No betrayal. Just a slow fade, like someone turning the volume down on your favorite song without warning. Satiya had always promised they'd grow up together, side by side like twin stars in the same constellation. But somewhere along the way, life drew two lines where they'd thought there'd only be one.
She let the pages flutter through her fingers.
There were more entries. Some with doodles. Some with half-written poetry that barely rhymed. Some filled with lists of things she wished she could tell her. But all of them echoed the same longing. The same quiet survival.
Even in absence, Satiya had stayed.
In the shape of memory. In the way her younger self coped by turning imagination into comfort. The empty chair that never felt quite empty. The whispered jokes she still heard. The ghost that didn't haunt, but lingered.
And suddenly, Anaya knew what she'd write.
That Night – Writing Begins
Under the soft yellow glow of her table lamp, she opened a fresh notebook. The old diary lay beside her like a quiet witness, its memories breathing next to her.
She started writing—not a direct memory, but a fictional monologue. A voice that could belong to any girl, any age, who carried someone with her long after they were gone.
Not gone as in dead. Just... separated.
I talked to you today.
Not really. But I saw something and I thought—'You'd laugh at this.' And I smiled. The kind of smile people think is just random. But it wasn't random. It was you. Still in here somewhere. Still real, in a different way.
She paused, swallowed, then kept going.
You were never just a person. You became a pattern. A way I survive things. When I walk into a room I'm scared of, I pretend you're there. Smiling. Saying something clever. That's the version of you I carry. It changes sometimes. But it's mine.
You were the first goodbye I didn't understand. The first presence that turned into absence quietly. I carry that silence. But I also carry the warmth. The way you knew what I was thinking before I said it. The way you made everything less lonely.
She stopped. Breathed.
There were a thousand more things she could say, but maybe the most important ones didn't need to be on the page. Maybe they already lived in the way she noticed certain colors. In the way she turned to laugh before realizing no one was there.
Next Morning – Campus Bench
The breeze was crisp when Anaya reached early, her folder tucked under one arm. She scanned the quiet campus and spotted a familiar figure sitting under the gulmohar tree near the literature building.
Pradeep.
He looked the same—calm, low-key, leaning back with one leg stretched and a notebook open on his knee.
Anaya walked over.
"Morning," she said softly.
He looked up. "Morning."
She sat on the bench beside him—not too close, not too far.
There was a pause. The kind that wasn't awkward. Just peaceful.
"Did you write something?" she asked.
"Yeah," he replied, eyes still on his notebook. "Watched an anime episode last night. Something about memories. It... matched."
Anaya tilted her head. "That's interesting."
He glanced at her, half a smile tugging at his lips. "Sad enough to qualify. I wouldn't recommend it unless you've cried in the last 24 hours."
She let out a small laugh. "I cry at dog videos, so I might qualify."
He smiled—just a little more this time.
She didn't say anything about the diary. Or the quiet ache she'd held all these years for someone who used to be her everything. But somehow, it felt like he'd understand even without knowing the details.
They didn't speak after that. But neither moved.
It was enough—two people sitting quietly, notebooks in hand, carrying different stories but understanding the weight of all of them.
---
To be continued...