A late autumn breeze swept through the university corridors as students hurried past each other, arms cradling folders, scarves fluttering. It was the kind of morning where things felt lighter, even if no one knew why. Anaya walked with her folder tucked close to her chest, her steps steady, her eyes tracing the cracks in the pavement like they were stories waiting to be read.
The words she had written the night before still lingered in her chest like a quiet hum. Not loud. Not painful. Just present.
She hadn't expected much from the assignment—more of a club activity than an actual submission. But now, as she approached the literature wing, something felt... off. Not in a bad way. Just different. The hallway outside the clubroom had a faint buzz to it, like a secret about to slip out.
Mr. Bakshi, the club coordinator, was waiting near the bulletin board with his usual calm demeanor. His fingers held a stack of printed submissions—pages marked with doodles, bold titles, scratched-out lines. But one lay on top, neatly printed, smoothed at the corners.
"Some of your pieces were raw," he said, gathering the small crowd that had formed. "Some were hilarious, some confused me. One or two gave me a headache." A few chuckles floated in the air. "But one of them stayed."
He raised the page delicately. "I've chosen this piece to go on our weekly board—not because it's flawless, but because it made me stop reading and just feel something."
The board had featured many writings over the semester—quotes, poems, even random haikus—but rarely did anyone linger to read all of it. Today, however, there was something more grounded about the atmosphere.
"It's titled 'The You I Carried.'"
Anaya stopped breathing.
The girl standing next to her, gasped. "That's yours, right?" she whispered, nudging her shoulder.
Anaya gave the smallest nod. She wasn't sure she wanted it to be public. Not entirely. The story was a quiet place in her chest, one she only let herself visit in the dark, when no one was around to ask questions.
But now it was going up—printed, pinned, and visible.
By late afternoon, it stood on the club's weekly display board, clipped just beneath a poetry slam notice and a call for volunteers. A small crowd formed as the hours passed. People read it in silence, heads tilted, eyes focused. Some frowned thoughtfully. Some just stood there for a long time. Even the ones who usually skimmed past had slowed down.
That Same Day – A Different Thread
Satiya hadn't planned to be there.
His cousin Amit, a fresher, had asked him to swing by and help pick up some borrowed notes from a senior. Just a quick visit. Ten minutes, max.
While Amit busied himself on a call near the staircase, Satiya wandered. He wasn't sure why his steps took him toward the literature wing. Old habit, maybe. Or just curiosity. The kind that stirs when you're somewhere you haven't been in a while.
That's when he saw it.
The notice board.
The title caught his eye first.
The You I Carried.
The first few lines tugged at something inside him before he could even process why.
"You were never just a person. You became a pattern. A way I survive things I don't know how to name..."
He kept reading.
And reading.
The voice in the writing—soft, aching, honest—felt familiar in a way that made his chest tighten.
By the time he reached the end, his breath had slowed. The signature at the bottom read: Anaya K.
He stepped back slightly, as if physical distance could dilute the weight of it.
A rush of memories returned—tucked-away conversations, her eyes when she talked about how she never really fit in during middle school. Her admission of loneliness. That unspoken bond they'd once had that dissolved before it could name itself.
He hadn't thought of those things in months. Now, her voice had returned—not through a call or a message, but through words she'd probably never meant for him to see.
He looked around.
And that's when he saw her.
Across the courtyard, near the bench where sunlight spilled in golden layers—there she was. Laughing softly, her hand covering part of her face, head tilted toward a boy standing beside her. Not touching. But close enough.
The guy—taller, quiet-eyed—had a calm presence. Steady. Like someone who could hold a secret and never speak it aloud. He was saying something Anaya found funny, apparently, because she laughed again, her shoulders relaxed in a way Satiya remembered only faintly.
It wasn't just her smile that got to him.
It was how easy she looked.
As if she had found somewhere to land.
He stood under the shade of a neem tree, unnoticed. Unmoving.
His feet wanted to move forward.
But his pride pulled him back.
They looked close. Comfortable. Like they'd known each other long enough. That was the kind of closeness that didn't need labels to be obvious.
And suddenly, the lines from her story weren't just poetic anymore.
They were real.
And they reminded him of something she once told him on a cold January morning two years ago—that middle school had been a blur of silent corridors and empty lunch breaks. That sometimes, she wondered if her invisibility was permanent.
It made him wonder—was this story about that time?
Was it about him?
He wasn't sure.
But the possibility left a weight in his chest he couldn't shake.
He turned before she could notice him.
Later That Evening – Outside the Library
Anaya was heading toward the library steps when she heard footsteps behind her.
"Hey," Pradeep said casually, his hands in his pockets, matching her pace.
She smiled. "Didn't lose you in the crowd, did I?"
"I stayed back," he said. "Had to check something."
She didn't ask what. It was just how they were—space without pressure.
He walked beside her, the silence between them not awkward, just full.
"You know," he said after a moment, "you're different in your writing."
She tilted her head. "That's the second time someone said that. How different?"
He glanced at her sideways. "You let yourself be seen in ways you don't when you talk. Less... defensive. More raw."
She squinted at him dramatically. "So I'm a fraud outside of paper?"
He chuckled. "Not a fraud. Just more protected. Like you hide behind jokes. But when you write, it's like the armor's gone."
She nodded, her smile dimming to something thoughtful. "Maybe writing's the only place I feel safe enough to be honest."
He didn't push. He never did.
Instead, he said quietly, "It was a good piece. It made people stop."
She looked up at him. "Did it make you stop?"
He met her gaze. "Yeah. It did."
There it was again—that honesty. So steady. So undemanding.
They reached the end of the path near the campus gate. The light had softened to orange, and a breeze brushed past their faces.
She felt it—how much she wanted to stay in that moment.
So she let it linger.
And Pradeep, who rarely stayed in any moment too long, stayed too.
At the Same Time – From a Distance
Behind the neem tree, a figure turned away for the second time.
Satiya had watched long enough.
He had thought—just for a second—that maybe he could walk up and say hi. That maybe seeing her again would spark something unfinished.
But seeing her with that boy changed something.
Not because he was jealous.
But because she looked... alright.
Better, even.
And that made him hesitate.
Again.
That Night – A Message That Was Never Sent
Satiya sat on his bed, the glow from his phone screen washing over his face. The words were there, typed out and waiting:
"Hey. It's been a while. I saw your writing. – Satiya."
He stared at the blinking cursor.
Then, without warning, he tapped backspace.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Until it was all gone.
He tossed the phone beside him, turned to the ceiling, and let the silence fill the spaces her words had opened inside him.
She hadn't meant it for him.
But it had reached him anyway.
***
In another room, Anaya scrolled through her messages.
Nothing new.
She didn't expect anything. Still, her mind wandered.
To the boy who stayed quiet but understood.
To the story she didn't think anyone would read.
And somewhere, far from where her thoughts could reach, someone else was still carrying the weight of a memory in silence.
Some stories never get a proper ending.
Some echoes just stay.
Unspoken.
---
To be continued...