Freedom without Fight

As another year of Indian Independence commences, my patriotism reaches an all-time high, and the songs and movies fuel my spirit with pride for my motherland. I often wonder why I feel so touched by the freedom struggle. Is it the realisation that we gained freedom after countless fights? Would I still feel patriotic and proud if we gained freedom easily? What if we were always free without any fight?

Considering myself, I find that my freedom has always aligned with India’s. I never felt obliged to fight against specific rules imposed by my parents. I never felt the need to wage wars against a bit of curfew and go to bed on time. 

But recently, I started to find some uncanny restraints. A weird fear every time I step out of the house, the wild traffic and stares of people drilling holes at the back of my head. As I grew older, the news started to scare me, and my head began to cloud with insecurities. I no longer felt free to do certain things. Even though these are simple things, I feel scared to do them in my own country.

Then I got this opportunity to complete my B. Tech degree abroad. My heart beat with excitement at this prospect, but a tiny part of me was sad. Am I ditching my nation? Is my act against the sacrifice of many?

But I crave freedom, like each bird held in any cage. 

What do I expect my freedom to be like? Well, I would get up early and open the windows. Instead of being met with a cloud of smoke, the morning breeze would greet me. 

I then want to get ready for a morning jog. I never ran and was not an athlete in school, but chasing the wind and feeling my heart pump quickly and my legs cramping up feels fun. I never went on a run at home, never plucked up the courage. The pot-holed roads, gravel littered about, and stray animals walking around just demotivated me to stay home.

Then I would be back and get ready for the day. What to wear is always confusing, but worse is that people stating what you are wearing is wrong. It is every individual’s choice to feel comfortable in their skin. I want to be free and not feel insecure walking to my university. Feel secure enough to take public transport without having to worry about the person who might sit next to me. I want to be free to call for help instead of getting a late response from the law.

The courses taught there would align with the ones back home. After all, the sun rises in the east all over. However, there might be academic freedom and the chance to experiment and understand things practically, instead of just making a 'practical file'.

In the evenings, I might go swimming sometimes. It has been three months since I swam, even though I love swimming. Each day, I longed to swim, but the condition of the community pool held me back. I no longer wish to swim in the over-chlorinated water. The open pool is just an invitation to tadpoles, frogs, and water insects. I do not want to visit the horrible changing rooms, so I hold myself back.

On weekends, I can shop for groceries, explore landmarks, visit museums, stores, or the beach. I want to feel free to explore these places on my own instead of being bound by the judgmental looks of strangers.

I do not know when my sense of freedom evolved. Earlier, I was fine with just an independent India. But now I realise that being ruled by our government does not sign off on all fundamental freedoms. 

I want to be free, but I do not know who to fight against when electricity fails to reach me, even though I am paying. I do not know where I should fight to ask for better and safer roads. Who should I defeat to get cleaner air to breathe? Should I fight against my government? I can vote for another party, but which one stands true to its promises? 

And when the government finally passes a bill, the nation stands divided between. The roads are blocked as people sit down to dissent. We want the government to act, but are never happy with the decisions. This fight amongst ourselves is pointless, and it is harming our economy. We are descendants of freedom fighters who have not learnt that the battle was over 78 years ago. Now we need to tend to wounds instead of inflicting new ones.

Is it wrong of me to seek freedom? Freedom without fight is what I have ever wanted, and now I want to take this chance. Is my moving abroad to study an anti-patriotic act? Is it a cruel deceit on my part? I do not know. I love my nation. I tried to volunteer, planted trees, and promoted composting, but each fight felt futile. I want some little things that make me free, and if this opportunity allows me to gain independence, I will surely grab it.

I do not know how my life will be abroad. Who knows, the struggles are too complex, and the conditions are worse than at home, so I have decided to return. But if I feel free enough, I would start labelling myself as a Global Citizen. I loved my nation. But calling ourselves a developing nation since 1947 no longer seems like a flex. I know change is a slow brew, and it may take ages before our nation is free in the true sense. 

Until then, I sought my freedom without a fight. 

Jai Hind

Train Past Midnight

My eyes burned as I read through the endless formula list. Finals were less than a week away, and books were scattered around me. The librarian kept glaring. But I wouldn’t be nerdy Ned if I didn’t stay until the last second before closing. A week before exams meant midnight oil — and I was ready to burn it.

As the clock ticked on, I grew increasingly engrossed in the words etched by ink. My thoughts fixated on getting straight A’s again. When the librarian finally came to throw me out, I felt relieved. I still had to revise three chapters and tackle those extra questions, but there was time.

I stepped out, my mind still whirling with theories and concepts. Slipping on my headphones, I started a peaceful meditation playlist to drown out the overthinking as I hurried down the street.

The sky was dark and brooding, the midsummer humidity clinging to my skin. I looked up just as the first drops of rain hit my face. Lightning tore through the clouds, ironic against the serene music in my ears. The drizzle quickly turned into a downpour, and I picked up my pace. Falling sick now — during finals — would be catastrophic.

Rain fogged my glasses, and I glanced at my watch, muttering in annoyance. I had exactly two minutes to catch the last subway home.

I broke into a run toward the station. The black tunnel loomed ahead, its mouth wide open, howling in the torrential rain. My foot slipped on a rock as I thought I’d made it. My bag fell from my shoulder, splitting open. Books and notes were scattered across the wet pavement.

I scrambled to gather them under the glare of lightning that seemed to mock my misfortune. When I entered the station and swiped my card through the gate, I heard the hiss and rumble of departing wheels.

Too late.

Soaked and shivering, I stood at the empty platform, bag at my feet, headphones hanging limply around my neck. A dull ache throbbed in my forehead. I took off my glasses and cried — just for a minute. Exactly a minute. Then I wiped my face, sniffed away my self-pity, and decided to speak to the station master.

That’s when I felt a sudden cold draft sweep through the tunnel.

The hair on my neck stood up as a train pulled in.

I glanced around. The platform was deserted — typical for this late hour. The train map showed my stop. But I didn’t recognize this train.

It was off-schedule.

I had never gotten on this one. And I’m a neat freak — I like my routines. Even a slight deviation can throw me off. But tonight, I had no choice. This might be the last train.

Pushing aside my doubts, I stepped in.

The doors shut behind me with a whoosh. The coach was empty, silent. I sat in the middle, pulled my headphones back on, and resumed my playlist. The train began to move. I leaned my head against the cool glass, the ache in my skull pulsing with each beat.

Just as I was getting comfortable, the music began to glitch. The song broke into static. I groaned, opened my eyes, and jolted upright.

The once-empty coach was now full of passengers.

Right across from me, a potbellied man in office clothes smiled. Too wide. Too still.

I blinked. He was gone. Everyone was gone.

The coach was empty again.

My heart thundered. I pulled down my headphones. The silence was suffocating. I sat back down, trying to steady my breathing.

Maybe it's all in my head.

I am overexerting myself. Tomorrow, I’ll take it easy. Sleep in, maybe walk in the park. This isolation and stress are driving me insane.

I returned my head to the glass and slipped my headphones on again. I began counting the lights flashing in the tunnel outside to calm down.

The window began to fog from my breath. Odd. Fogged windows in midsummer?

I stared at the mist as a small handprint appeared on the glass.

A child’s.

I saw him in the window’s reflection — his teeth first, grinning. Then the static burst through my headphones again.

The boy’s face leered at me through the window.

Then, I saw him — the potbellied man — approaching from the other side.

I turned, heart pounding.

Nothing. Empty coach. No child. No man.

And my music was playing again.

No. No, this can’t be happening.

I ran to the emergency stop and hit the button. Nothing happened—no screeching brakes. No alarm. The train kept moving.

Cold sweat dripped down my temple. I felt eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.

They were behind me. I knew they were.

I bolted toward the next cabin. I just had to get away from them.

The door wouldn’t open.

I screamed and pounded my fists on the glass, sobbing. My eardrums rang from the static, and my head pounded in rhythm with my heartbeat.

The lights flickered.

The robotic voice echoed:

“Don’t lean against the doors. Remain seated while the train is moving.”

The same line, over and over.

My vision blurred. The ghostly passengers flickered with the lights — appearing, disappearing, reappearing.

I looked down.

There was my bag. Scattered open, like it was on the rainy street.

But the books weren’t wet.

The notes weren’t smudged.

Because I didn’t pick them up.
Because I didn’t fall outside in the rain.

I had slipped and cracked my head on the stone step.

I was lying at the base of the subway stairs — bleeding, broken. Staring at the yellow caution sign that mocked me: “Slippery Floor.”

I didn’t climb on a ghost train.

The ghost train came for me.

As it always comes for those whose next stop…
Is their last one.

The Grief Code

The dread settled in her stomach, and a ringing noise filled her ears. The officer’s voice was muffled. Her eyes were blurring, and each breath felt too painful to take in. She held onto the front door with her left hand. The moon’s shine caught on the pretty diamond ring in her hand, reflecting and glimmering as the tears appeared on the corners of her eyes.

Her head was pounding, her brain beating against her skull. Dark spots were clouding her clarity. Paramedics helped her to her room and advised her to call some family or friends. She nodded in affirmation, and then they were gone.

The stillness of the night returned. In her room, the darkness settled heavily as she plunged into it. Her parents were long gone, and her friends, her faithful friend, her partner, the love of her life they told was not coming back.

Romona felt herself shatter into a billion pieces. She was not in grief. Instead, grief felt an essential part of her. It seemed unreal and impossible. She just talked to him. He was coming back to her. His cold phone lay clutched in her hand, and she curled up in bed. She switched it on, and her hands trembled as tears finally poured. It was a picture of them standing on the beach on their first date night; she was so happy there.

She kept scrolling through his gallery, each photo bringing back many memories and emotions. His voice and laughter were so crystal and sweet in all of them. His words were a balm to her broken heart. It seemed so real. He seemed so close. Their memories were not meant to end; they were supposed to keep growing.

They were building a life together and also a project. Her eyes glided over to the desk in the room. Before falling madly in love, she was a science geek. Technology can change everything. Fix and set things right. Their project was a grief simulator, but what if it could be more? Could this be a way to bring him back?

 

Getting off the bed, she took slow steps to the desk. She plugged in the phone and switched on the laptop. A hum fell across the silent room as the system powered up. The machine's powering-up voice supported her and helped her gain strength to sit behind the setup. She brought out the code. And started to work on it. Making it into something more. She was no longer changing the world and not making discoveries or working on fame.

All that mattered now was her destiny.

Their destiny.

She was not ready for it to fail. The nagging insecurity caused her eyes to well up again. But she couldn’t break down now. He needed her, and each second counted. She had to work faster. Her fingers rhythmically glided over the keyboard. The entire house held its breath as she worked. The minutes on the clock trickled past midnight, but fatigue was still far from her mind.

The model finally began to run. As his texts, videos, voice recordings, and digital memories were uploaded, it felt like he was returning to life. She held her breath as the seconds trickled by. And finally, the executing bar appeared. Percentages on the screen show the progress. It was nearly 3 am, and all the emotions were finally taking a toll on her as she struggled to open her eyes. Just some more minutes, but her swollen eyes blinked, and she slipped into darkness.

 

Romona stirred; a voice had woken her up.

“You silly goose, you slept the entire drive and crashed out again.” His laughter felt like music to her, and she smiled. The setup was complete, and he was waiting for her to reply. She took a breath as her heart jumped in excitement and fear.

“You are here.”

“Of course, Rom for you forever.”

Tears cascaded down her cheeks. Those words meant everything to her. They were her balm, her ointment to this tragic incident. Her conscious part warned it was a façade. It’s a bot mimicking him. But she silenced it.

A woman of science is below the one in grief.

She wanted him to be back, and he came back to her.

They were talking as usual. He knew everything. They discussed their first date. Their birthdays, engagement. He remembered everything. It felt so genuine, like he was there in front of her. He had never left her.

The accident never happened. His trip just got delayed. Maybe his conference was extended for a few days. Yes, that’s what happened. That’s what ought to happen.

But her brain was interfering, prompting her to ask the burning question. It was getting too much to suppress, so she asked it.

“When will you be back?”

He replied, “Rom, I will soon be driving home.”

“Yes, please get back to me soon. I miss you.”

“I love you, Romona. You are the best thing in my life.”

“Please come back.”

“Rom, you must keep growing; I am so proud of you.”

“Come back and tell this to me.”

“Rom, you are an innovative and intelligent woman. You will help so many people.”

“Just come back.”

“Rom, you need to let go, you understand.”

“No, you are here with me; please stay.”

“It's okay, Rom, but it's not your fault.”

“Just be back.”

“I need to go.”

“NO.”

“Rom, I love you. I will forever love you.”

Panic caught up to her as she screamed, cried, and begged. Begged to an AI Model Simulation, to return to be back. But her pleas just remained hung up in the room.

No one came back. He didn’t appear to place his arms around her as she wept. He didn’t whisper in her ears that it would be all right.

She lost him, she couldn’t bring him back.

She saw the screen and wild rage filled her. She switched it back on. And opened a new chat.

She can’t lose him.

She felt giddy and smiled as the simulation began again with his laughter.

This time, she would bring him back. 

Cemented

 

I held my head high as I strutted down the path, cane in hand and hat tilted just right. The early morning sun bounced off my bronze-painted face, casting glints of light as I moved. Birds chirped curiously from above, perhaps baffled to see a statue walking through the park with such confidence.

I puffed on my imaginary cigar, savoring the illusion. My cane clicked rhythmically against the cobbled path, keeping time with my theatrical steps. I waved at a passerby whose jaw dropped in shock. Poor boy must’ve just woken up to see a bronze statue wave at him. Reactions like that? It's always worth it.

As a live statue, I’m used to awe and wonder. It comes with the act. But today, something nudged me to explore—maybe the crispness of the morning or the feeling that the city still held secrets. My feet led me to a place I had never entered before: the old cemetery on the edge of downtown.

I’d been in this city for almost a year, performing on sidewalks and street corners, but I had never walked through this overgrown place. The gate was rusted open, groaning softly in the breeze. I stepped inside. The ground was cracked, tombstones tilted, and covered in crawling ivy. The deeper I walked, the more silent the world became like the birds and breeze held their breath.

The cemetery was ancient. Crumbling stone angels loomed with eyeless sockets, and moss blanketed the graves like a thick shroud. Still, I crossed through, figuring it was a shortcut. Eventually, I reached the other side and merged with the morning crowd on the city sidewalk.

Soon, I found my spot on the corner, stepped up on my pedestal, and struck my pose. Today, I was Sherlock Holmes—magnifying glass in hand, trench coat stiff with bronze paint. Last week, I was Apollo, and before that, Iron Man. The characters changed, but the show stayed the same. People laughed, gasped, took pictures, and dropped bills into my tin. A group of tourists gathered; I subtly shifted my posture. Tourists meant cash.

The day passed in a blur of flashes, footsteps, and faint applause. By sunset, my joints ached, my skin burned under layers of stiff paint, and my smile faded beneath the mask. I counted my earnings, packed my things, and started to walk back to my apartment.

The sky had soured, turning gray and heavy. The humidity made the paint crack and flake on my arms. Then, the rain came. Thunder boomed like a drumbeat from the heavens. Lightning danced above the rooftops.

I pulled my coat tighter and looked for shelter. That’s when I noticed the cemetery gate again. I must’ve taken a wrong turn. Still, it struck me that this was the quickest path home. With little hesitation, I stepped inside.

The air grew colder almost instantly. The drizzle barely made it through the twisted, skeletal trees. The path slouched beneath my weight, the moss squelching like wet fabric. My heart thudded louder with each step.

Lightning flashed—brief, brilliant, and terrible.

That’s when I saw it.

A statue. Not a grave angel or mourning woman, but... a man. Bronze. Frozen mid-step, one arm outstretched as if waving. His face twisted in terror.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat.

I recognized that pose.

It was Tim—Old Tim, the wizard performer from the main boulevard. He hadn't been around for weeks. We’d all thought he moved to another city. But there he was, immortalized in horror.

My eyes darted around as another flash hit the sky.

More statues.

A woman in a ballerina pose, eyes wide with fear. A man mid-bow, his hands gripping a now-cracked violin. One with a hawk mask, half-shattered, revealing cemented teeth underneath.

They were all live performers. Artists. People I knew.

The realization hit me like ice: they hadn’t left—they’d become part of this place.

I turned to run. My feet skidded on the wet stone. Another bolt of lightning seared the sky. My pulse pounded like a war drum.

And then... movement.

The statues were no longer frozen. Slowly, they shifted. Heads turned. Eyes locked on me. A dozen unmoving faces somehow twisted into silent screams, and their arms began to rise.

“Stop,” I whispered to no one, stumbling backward. The shadows twisted, stretching like claws. With every step I took, the statues seemed closer—closing in, surrounding me like a ritual circle.

I slipped. Fell hard. Pain bloomed in my elbow, but adrenaline kept me going. I scrambled to my feet—only to feel it.

Cold.

Crawling up my legs. Cement. Hardening.

I looked down—my feet were turning to stone. The paint on my skin bubbled and hissed. My scream caught in my throat. I was being sealed, slowly and cruelly.

One final lightning bolt lit up the sky—and I saw my reflection in a puddle.

Half of my face was already stone.

---

I woke up gasping.

Sweat drenched my sheets. My feet ached. My back throbbed. But I was in my apartment, safe.

I staggered to the bathroom. My face was pale. There was no paint, no stone, no signs of the storm. Just me, shaken and alive.

I rinsed my face and looked up into the mirror.

And froze.

Above my brow was a jagged, gray streak of cement blending into my hairline.

My fingers trembled as I touched it.

It was real.

A part of me was no longer mine.

A part of me was cemented—forever.

 

Mistaken for a Mission

Spring was finally settling into a super long summer. And I sure was excited about it. Yes, summer is tiring and endless, but I admire its consistency. Also, you can have countless ice creams, go for a swim, wear pretty dresses, enjoy longer days, and have so much energy the entire day to go on adventures.

I was blissfully making summer plans when the heat made me suffocate. It was an ordinary afternoon, a bit hotter than yesterday. Also, the rise in humidity had made staying indoors insufferable, so I trotted outside for an afternoon walk.

 

I stood under the shade of the big tree in the backyard and looked at how it had shed so many leaves to welcome the season of growth. I was walking on a blanket of dead, crunchy leaves. Suddenly, I spotted something sparkle in the mass of brown; I bent down to pick it up. It was a weird coin; its notation was blurred out and not visible clearly.

 

It started to sparkle brighter and grow warm in my hand. I felt myself being pulled towards it until the pull became too strong. I tried to keep my feet on the ground, but the coin whisked me off it, and I fell into a black abyss.

 

I soon landed back on my feet and looked down at myself, and my jaw dropped; my clothes had transformed; I was wearing a fabulous black jumpsuit just like in those incredible spy movies, and looking about, I realized that I had teleported right on the set of one.

It was a big dark room illuminated with neon lighting. And big screen all around. Weird gadgets and tech stuff stood on the walls, and many other people were in the room, too. All the girls were wearing black suits like mine, and the men had white costumes, which were a bit out of place, but who could stand against the costume designers? Before I could tell someone I was on set by mistake and had no script, the screens around the room flickered to life.

 

An older woman, dressed meticulously in a black suit, her grey hair in a pristine bun on her head, peered over us with her round spectacles before announcing, “Agents, your next mission is essential for all of us; you need to get through it or die trying. All the best.” The screens blacked out, and the lights shut, but somehow, no one screamed, not even a single hoot, not even from me.

I waited for the director’s cut because I couldn’t have come on a mission. Could I? Especially the one involving death, shouldn’t my first mission be stealing something from the house of a weak and old villain with just two bodyguards?

 

Well, the coin in my hand had its other plan, and like any weird sci-fi film, I had transported to my next location, defying the fundamentals of physics.

Air flew out of my lungs as I saw where I was. It was dry ground with gravel stretched about, and the trees grew heavily. It seemed like we had arrived in a forest clearing. The extreme humidity and heat suggested it was a rainforest. But as I turned around, I saw we were at the bottom of a mountain with smoking on top.

Can we pause for a minute? Is that an active volcano? Why are we at an active volcano? I don’t like this at all.

 

But to add to my discomfort, I saw people emerge from the woods in the clearing. My teammates and I were being corned, and then chaos broke through. Everyone went to fight the bad guys, with kicks and punches flying about. Pocket knife slashing through and gunshots being fired.

I valiantly ducked behind a bolder. My head was spinning, my stomach churned horribly, and my chest was constricting with a panic attack. I tried to get my bearings, but I still couldn’t understand why I was mistaken for this mission; I wasn’t cut out for this stress level. I looked at the coin still in my palm and tried to read the words on it.

‘The chosen one,’ it read. This was an extreme level of a fiction adventure story. I can’t be the chosen one. I didn’t feel special at all, but my teammates were falling. I saw all the white men fall. We were going to lose if I didn’t spring into action.

 

I walked out of my hiding spot and tried to concentrate to bring out my inner Hulk, but I managed to freeze on the spot and be tied up with the remaining agents. So, much for walking out of the safe place, I acted like a stupid horror movie actress, the one who would probably die before the interval.

 

We were loaded onto the jeep that started to make its way up the mountain. I tried to concentrate on my surroundings, but the noises seemed muffled, and the lights seemed sharp to my eyes as my head was still throbbing painfully. The extreme heat was choking me, and my throat felt like sandpaper. We reached the top and were forced out near the crater's edge. Heat blew in my face, and my body broke into a sweat; I squirmed in my bounds with discomfort.

 

I could hear them discuss a ritual and blood; I didn’t like the idea of blood and ritual together. Instead, I was happy to be left free to walk away. But being chosen comes with the perks of being the first to be placed on the platform.

 

When they were coming for me with the syringe, I knew this was my cue for breaking free from the ropes tying me up and hitting the crazy guy in front of me with a solid round kick, flipping back and pulling out my two draggers and getting into my better than Black Widow spy mode to knock all of them up.

But all I could do was let out a pathetic scream as the scringe was plunged into me. I thought scraping my knee was painful, or getting bit by a wasp was actual pain, or falling from the scooter was horrible. But giving out three bottles of blood was agony metamorphized. It was hell rationalized.

I grew weak, and my knees clacked as I slid on the ground. I felt my hands and feet clammy, and my steady and strong BP fell. I saw black spots flash before my eyes, bile rose in my throat, and my stomach felt queasy, trying to heave out the bits of food it had.

But I was too drained even to breathe correctly; my eyes began to shut. All I could feel was the scorching heat from the ground and my body trying to breathe. The ground felt good, though a bit soft but secure, and its heat made me break into a cold sweat.

 

I opened my eyes; I was back in my room; the bedside table held the set of next pills and a glass of water that I used for my parched throat. I stretched, my head no longer spinning, and it seemed I was back to normal temperature. I got up and decided to complete some college assignments. Viral fever will take some days to recover, which meant the mission was still on.

The Last Question

The pouring rain hit my ears, and I took a minute to register that it was my alarm clock blaring. I grappled with the sheets to reach out for my phone. I silenced the cheerful rain sounds and silently crashed the room as the phone's light made me squint my eyes. 2 am read the screen. I groaned and spent 15 minutes wondering why getting up was worthwhile. Honestly, Midterms have started to haunt me. Thankfully, it’s the last time today.

 

I threw off my comforter and slid off my bed with heavy steps. I reached my desk and opened my laptop. The dark room lit up with the laptop’s screen light. My bloodshot eyes were far more adjusted to read like vampires than work under full lighting. I opened my notebook, clicked on my pen, and started to write down the question. The scratching and shuffling of sheets filled the room as I absorbed the task. I was obsessed with studying at this time. It’s when many people give up on learning, or the ones on all-nighters take a slagging, but I start afresh now. It was practically my time to rule over the entire world. I felt like the king of the world.

 

I finished the question and looked at the answer bank. Of course, it matched; it was meant to match. I turned the page to the next question. The air of darkness felt cold and heavy on my shoulders, but I didn’t care about anything. The wind blew outside my window, and the moon covered its face with the blankets of clouds. My laptop remains the sole source of light now.

 

 I heard the door knob rattle; I paused and looked at the door. I was annoyed by someone breaking my meditation. But the door remained silent, and I chalked it off as a play of wind. I kept solving my problems as time ticked away.

 

After an hour, the doorknob rattled again, but I was too engaged in my question to notice it. I was finally on the last problem, and I finally reached the end of it. Smirking I turned to the answer key, and my eyes widened in shock as I saw that my answer was wrong. I took the pen and swiftly turned up a new page, my breath shallow as I tried to undo the error. Twenty minutes later, I still had solved it wrong. I threw my pen aside and gripped my head in frustration.

I know nothing; I am going to fail today. Thoughts of failure started blurring my mind, and I became anxious and annoyed. In all the chaos the door banged open. I jumped in fright. The cool wind hit my face, and I turned in shock to see the open door. No one stood on the opposite end. I got up; my heart was beating rapidly, but I was more annoyed at my stupidity than afraid of this mysterious occurrence. How could I have forgotten to lock the doorknob? Anyone could have come walking in and stole valuable stuff like my excellent notes, and I would have been peacefully slumbering. I shut the door and turned the lock. I sat back on the chair and noticed that my laptop had switched to power-saving mode. Well, I will get up again when it dies.

 

I started to solve that problem again. The air inside had turned stiller, and the temperature seemed to have dropped even though it was supposed to be a clear night. The howling wind outside signaled a noticeable change in plan. I rubbed my eyes as I got it wrong again.

A chuckle echoed in the room. I looked up. It still hung over my dorm like the impending doom. My mind slugged over the concept. Did I imagine a chuckle? It was possible; maybe it was all in my head. Distracted, I scolded myself and returned to solving the question.

My hands were shaking, and I mumbled at the increasing cold. The laptop’s screen started to fade more as the battery leaked out. I was on my last 10 percent.

I sighed and my sigh echoed back. I froze.

I felt watched.

I looked through my laptop’s screen, but all I could see was my ghost-pale reflection and darkness behind me. Something seemed unnatural about the way darkness gathered behind me. As if it was all centered right behind me. It looked like someone was sitting on my bed hiding in the shadows.

I shook my head. I was irrational. This was a trick of my mind not to study. I had to keep pushing on. The battery lowered by another percent, and the wind outside increased slightly.

 

Soon, the oak tree by the window tapped on the pane as if warning me. The relentless thump thump matched my heartbeat. I heard my bed creek. They were getting up now and were coming to get me.

My rationale screamed at me to look back and face my fear, but suddenly I felt like losing control. It was as if facing the worst nightmare.

A problem in the dark. I hated that; I liked to get in the face of mystery, but I was too timid today. I grabbed my pen and returned to the question. I must keep working, it's all in my head, and nothing is behind me.

Shivers ran down my spine as I felt icy breath exhale over my shoulder. They were standing just an inch away from me. I had to solve this question. It was the last one left; it would all be okay if I solved it.

My pen scratched relentlessly, the battery dropped, and the doorknob rattled as the oak beat away. Their cold breath on my shoulder kept me on edge; I gulped as I reached the last step. It still seemed off, and I made an error again.

 

The laptop was screaming alerts at me saying just 5% remaining. Tears fell on my notebook as I restarted the question, their breath quickened as they realized I was failing. They were basking in my failure, feeding off my distress. The battery dropped to last one percent, and I dropped my pen. I can’t do this. I close my eyes and feel darkness consume me.

 

The pouring rain hit my ears, and I took a minute to register that it was my alarm clock blaring. I grappled with the sheets to reach out for my phone. I silenced the cheerful rain sounds and silently crashed the room as the phone's light made me squint my eyes. 2 am read the screen. I groaned and spent 15 minutes wondering why getting up was worth the effort. Honestly, Midterms have started to haunt me. I really hope that it will be the last time today.

In Love

It's that time of the year when love is confessed. I know I am a day late, but my signature date is the 15^th, so any confession I ever make will happen on this date.

I am clumsy about offline confessions, but I believe I hold some charm when writing about my feelings.

So, here in this blog, I confess my feelings to you (it would be sad if you didn’t read it, though). But even if you didn’t read or didn’t understand, it's alright. I believe in destiny, and all things will come to a settlement.

So, here it goes…

 

As a little kid, my definition of love consisted of my love for toys, my favorite food, and my parents. Love was something I believed I couldn’t live without. Love made me happy.

Then, my younger brother was born, and I learned love was a responsibility. It was looking after and caring for someone.

When I made friends in school, I realized love was laughing at the silliest things, being carefree and unaware of all the troubles and problems.

When my best friend moved away in 5^th grade with tears in my eyes, I found out that love was letting go sometimes.

Then the High school Era rolled in, meaning meaner kids and messier hormones. It made me fall in love with living alone.

Corona helped me detach from people my age, and with screens between our conversations, I lost the concept of love altogether. I was in my golden era of ‘eh, who cares’ or cringing at lovey-dovey movie scenes.

Self-love reached a peak somewhere around that time. And let's say that, loving myself, I realized what a problematic girlfriend I am. I felt glad to save many boys.

Loving yourself is exhausting; sometimes, you look in the mirror and go, ‘Ugh.’ Being in a pre-college exam-burdened relationship was challenging. It was strained with accusations, blames, and words of cajole. I know one should not be harsh on oneself and all. But try dating yourself someday. It's exhausting. It's like fighting a grave battle in your head. That’s when I realized love is fighting for a better future, struggling to make it all work.

And it did turn out great. I made it to my college and was ready for all the adventures. During my first semester at the hostel, I realized love was the longing to return home. Love was leaving the hardships and rushing to embrace joy. I didn’t notice many things in the first semester; I put my naive nature to blame. Moreover, my plate was overfilled with things to figure out, from fitting in a new place to making friends, attending classes, and packing to go home every weekend. I barely had time to find out more about Love.

 

The second semester brought me to a realization: I saw the season of love unravel in front of me. And no, I am not talking about the blooming flowers and butterflies coming out in spring. I was introduced to the concept of college couples. How did I take this in? Well, I had my days. Some days, I was in a hopelessly romantic mood and found every gesture cute; others, I felt like an 80-year-old granny with frizzled hair and just annoyed by this childish PDA.

Most of the time, I was just plain awkward. Like this time when I just wanted to walk to my class and instead saw some scenes in a public hallway. Or I just came to write an article in the library. I didn’t want to be sandwiched between 2 pairs of couples, one madly in love and the other angry in love. Or the countless times in elevators. Yes, I thank God for the power of phone scrolling to escape those situations.

All this made me realize love was awkward and weird, too. And I was happy to be a single girlie.

 

One summer break later with my new haircut and a better-adjusted wardrobe. Entering my second year, I realized that this was the summer I turned pretty… delusional.

3^rd semester was wild, from classes that made no sense to people who stopped making sense.

In a way, I have been a pretty decent tomboy since, like forever, but with my growing delusions, I sometimes started to feel pretty girlie. And blushing in delusion is certainly not healthy. But it helped me realize that maybe love was an illusion or a magical delusion.

 

Now that I have spelled your name in this article at least 7 times in the pattern you can find. I think it's time to talk about the current semester.

 

Sometimes, I get a giddy feeling in my stomach from something you say or do. Do I label it as a childish crush? It's not childish cause I am aware of what is at stake now. But now is not the time to confess, at least not for me. I am an ardent believer in all the love stories; I cherish all their twists and turns. I want to have my happily ever after, but waiting and hoping is also romantic.

Till then, I can post love notes and songs. I am sorry, dear reader, for not giving an explicit name. But love is confusing and puzzling; you drop hints for the most obvious things.

 

But I don’t hold back on celebrating the season of love. Single or paired, I think we can all do something lovely each day. A little exchange of smiles can help ease someone’s trouble. Be the flicker of sunlight in someone’s life by being nice. Spreading joy is like finding love.

 

This weekend, I third-wheeled my parents’ date, and looking at them, I realized that love is trusting someone to be there for you. So, I wait for that level of trust.

 

Until then, I would love to write my thoughts, post some songs, and take you to witness Lots of Tales Amongst US.