'๐บ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐, ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ .'
๐บ๐๐๐ ๐ฌ๐๐๐๐๐๐ โ ๐ท๐๐๐'๐ ๐น๐๐๐
The evening air was laced with a quiet chill as it crept in through the slightly open window, brushing against the edges of Paro's desk. The thin curtains fluttered gently, ghostlike in the dim glow of her table lamp. Outside, the wind hummed softly.... not loud, but sharp enough to remind her that something was shifting, even if only in the sky.
Paro sat hunched over her wooden desk, her elbows tucked in, fingers curled around a pen like it was something to hold onto. Her diary lay open.... Pages already heavy with ink and emotion. The house around her was still, unnaturally still. Not the comforting silence of peace, but the kind that presses against the walls. The kind that dares you to make a sound, just to see if it will shatter.
She inhaled deeply, the air cold in her lungs, and began to write.
____
๐ณ๐๐พ๐๐ฝ๐บ๐, ๐ฃ๐ฃ:๐ฆ๐ง ๐๐
'๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ช๐ด ๐ฒ๐ถ๐ช๐ฆ๐ต ๐ข๐จ๐ข๐ช๐ฏ. ๐๐ฐ๐ฐ ๐ฒ๐ถ๐ช๐ฆ๐ต. ๐๐ช๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ช๐ต'๐ด ๐ธ๐ข๐ช๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฅ๐ช๐ด๐ข๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ. ๐ ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฏ'๐ต ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐บ ๐ ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฑ ๐ต๐ณ๐บ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ง๐ช๐ต ๐ช๐ฏ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ข ๐ด๐ฑ๐ข๐ค๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ง๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ด ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ด๐ฆ. ๐ ๐ด๐ฑ๐ข๐ค๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ท๐ฐ๐ช๐ค๐ฆ ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ฃ๐ข๐ค๐ฌ ๐ข๐ด "๐ณ๐ถ๐ฅ๐ฆ" ๐ฐ๐ณ "๐ฅ๐ช๐ด๐ณ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ค๐ต๐ง๐ถ๐ญ," ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ต๐ด๐ต๐ฆ๐ฑ๐ด ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฎ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐บ ๐ด๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ญ๐ฅ, ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฅ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฎ๐ด ๐ด๐ฎ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐บ ๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ. ๐๐ฐ๐ฅ๐ข๐บ, ๐ ๐ด๐ต๐ข๐บ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ด๐ฌ๐ช๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ญ๐ญ๐ฆ๐จ๐ฆ. ๐๐ฐ๐ต ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ค๐ข๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ ๐'๐ฎ ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ด๐ค๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ, ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ค๐ข๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ช๐จ๐ฉ๐ต ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ฆ๐บ๐ฆ๐ด. ๐๐บ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ฆ๐น๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ค๐ต ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ง๐ฆ๐ค๐ต. ๐๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ช๐ฏ๐ท๐ช๐ด๐ช๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ. ๐๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ด๐ด...'
Each word she penned felt like an exhale she hadn't known she'd been holding. Her brow furrowed as the emotions slipped outย the confusion, the ache of not belonging, the desperate need to feel real in a world that kept trying to flatten her into silence.
The soft scratching of her pen was the only noise in the room. Even the clock on the wall seemed to tick slower, as if it didn't want to interrupt her.
A flicker of a memory Siddhi's voice, warm and rebellious passed through her mind, bringing with it the faintest curve to her lips. "Maybe you're not supposed to shrink to fit," Siddhi had said.
'๐๐ช๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฉ๐ช ๐ค๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ฎ๐ข๐บ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐'๐ฎ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ด๐ถ๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ด๐ฉ๐ณ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฌ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ง๐ช๐ต. ๐๐ข๐บ๐ฃ๐ฆ, ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ฎ๐ข๐บ๐ฃ๐ฆ, ๐'๐ฎ ๐ด๐ถ๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐จ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ธ ๐๐ท๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ช๐ง ๐ช๐ต'๐ด ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ข ๐ฑ๐ญ๐ข๐ค๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฏ'๐ต ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด๐ต๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐บ๐ฆ๐ต. ๐ ๐ธ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ช๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ. ๐ ๐ธ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ช๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฏ'๐ต ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ช๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ด ๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ข ๐ค๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฌ๐ญ๐ช๐ด๐ต ๐ฐ๐ง '๐ข๐ค๐ค๐ฆ๐ฑ๐ต๐ข๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ข๐ท๐ช๐ฐ๐ณ.' ๐ ๐ธ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ช๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐'๐ฎ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ข ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฎ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ช๐น๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ข ๐ฅ๐ช๐ด๐ข๐ฑ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ช๐ฏ๐ต๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ช๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ข๐ธ๐ข๐บ.'
Paro paused, her pen hovering above the page. The thought lingered.
Was it possible?
She wanted to believe it. That love could be soft, not something earned through obedience. That she could grow into herself fully, without guilt tugging at her heels. She continued writing. Her words grew bolder. Sharper. Honest.
'๐๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ต๐ช๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ด, ๐ ๐ง๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ญ ๐ญ๐ช๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐'๐ฎ ๐ธ๐ข๐ญ๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ข ๐ต๐ช๐จ๐ฉ๐ต๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฆ, ๐ฃ๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐ฏ๐ค๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ต๐ธ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฐ ๐ ๐ข๐ฎ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฐ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐บ ๐ธ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ. ๐๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ ๐ฎ๐ช๐ด๐ด๐ต๐ฆ๐ฑ ๐ง๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ด ๐ญ๐ช๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ข ๐ค๐ณ๐ข๐ค๐ฌ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ณ๐ข๐จ๐ช๐ญ๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ข๐ค๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ. ๐๐ถ๐ต ๐ฎ๐ข๐บ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต'๐ด ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ข๐ค๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ญ๐ฅ. ๐๐ข๐บ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ช๐ต'๐ด ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ช๐ณ๐ด. ๐'๐ฎ ๐ต๐ช๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ. ๐๐ช๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฃ๐ช๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฏ๐จ๐ถ๐ฆ ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ต๐ช๐ญ ๐ช๐ต ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฅ๐ด ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฑ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ช๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ค๐ฆ ๐ง๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฎ ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ. ๐๐ฐ, ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ, ๐'๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฑ ๐ธ๐ณ๐ช๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐จ. ๐'๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฑ ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ญ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ฎ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ ๐ด๐ฑ๐ข๐ณ๐ฌ๐ด ๐ช๐ฏ๐ด๐ช๐ฅ๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐ฆ. ๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฃ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฌ๐ด ๐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฎ๐ด ๐ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ช๐ด๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ข๐ณ๐ฌ, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ณ๐ช๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ด ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฐ ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ด ๐ ๐ข๐ฎ. ๐๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ข๐บ, ๐ ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ด๐ฑ๐ข๐ณ๐ฌ๐ด ๐ธ๐ช๐ญ๐ญ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ข ๐ง๐ช๐ณ๐ฆ... ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ณ๐ฏ ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด, ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ญ๐ช๐จ๐ฉ๐ต ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ธ๐ข๐บ. ๐๐ฏ๐ต๐ช๐ญ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฏ, ๐'๐ฎ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ฏ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ด๐ถ๐ณ๐ท๐ช๐ท๐ฆ. ๐๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ต ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ฎ๐บ๐ด๐ฆ๐ญ๐ง. ๐๐ฆ๐ค๐ข๐ถ๐ด๐ฆ ๐'๐ฎ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ข ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฎ. ๐'๐ฎ ๐๐ข๐ณ๐ฐ. ๐๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฆ๐ณ๐ท๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฏ...'
By the time she placed the final full stop on the page, her breath felt steadier. Her heartbeat quieter. She gently closed the diary, letting the weight of it settle on the desk like a promise she'd made to herself.
She rose from the chair and stepped closer to the window. The sky outside was a canvas of navy and silver. The Moon hung low, Patient and Pale... with a single, bright star nestled close to its side, almost like it was keeping watch.
Paro folded her arms and leaned slightly on the sill, her gaze distant, but her eyes clear.
She didn't say anything.
She didn't have to.
In that moment with ink still fresh on paper and the moon lighting her skin. She felt something stir inside her.
Not quite peace.
But the beginning of strength.
---
๐ด๐๐๐๐๐'๐ ๐ท๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ฝ๐๐๐-๐ต๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐.
The morning air was sharper today, cooler than yesterday, and the city was waking slowly under a soft golden haze. Mayank swung his bag across his shoulder and tied his shoelaces with quiet purpose. Aabir, still half-asleep and chewing toast, looked up.
"You're serious about this?" Aabir asked.
Mayank didn't answer right away. He just stood at the window, watching the busy street. Kolkata breathed like an old lover, slow, smoky, and unpredictable.
"We don't even know her name, Mayank," he continued. Mayank turned, his eyes steady. "But something in me recognized her." Aabir groaned, grabbing his hoodie. "Fine. Romeo wants rain. Let's find your mystery girl with the musical keychain."
---
๐จ๐ ๐ช๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐.
The street was the same... noisy, bustling, alive. The same book stalls. Same tea vendor shouting about "fresh malai cha." Students in uniforms, rickshaws honking, the smell of old pages and roasted peanuts lingering like a nostalgic perfume.
But she wasn't there.
Not near the bus stop. Not at the corner where she'd walked past. Not inside the bookstore where the scent of rain dampened books clung like an echo. Mayank stood there, rooted scanning the crowd. Every girl with glasses made his breath catch for a second. But none of them had the sound.
That sound.
๐๐ก๐ก๐๐ง ๐๐ก๐ก๐๐ง...
Aabir tugged his sleeve. "Mayank, listen. Maybe she was just passing by. You saw her. She didn't even see you." "I know," Mayank murmured. "She doesn't know I exist. But that moment does. It exists." Aabir folded his arms. "You're chasing a girl you didn't talk to. Didn't even see her properly." "No," Mayank said, gaze still searching, "I'm chasing the feeling I felt when I saw her. That pause. That glitch in the street noise. Likeโฆ like something quiet screamed inside me." Aabir stared. "You're seriously out here sounding like a tragic poet."
Mayank smirked faintly. "You're the one who said maybe I should come back." "Yeah, for closure. Not a full-time pilgrimage."
They stood there a while longer. The crowd thickened. Vendors yelled louder. The city moved on. But Mayank didn't.He walked once more past the stall she paused at yesterday. Looked at the puddle where her reflection might've shimmered for a second. Nothing.
Aabir placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes, it's just a beautiful accident, bro. A one-scene story."
Mayank looked down the road, past the rows of umbrellas, toward the tram track where the mist thickened.
"Yeah," he said. "But even one-scene stories deserve a re-read."
And in his pocket, he clutched the smallest hope.
No phone number. No photograph. No words exchanged.
Just the memory of silver anklets...
And the feeling that someone, somewhere, was unknowingly carrying a piece of him with them.
๐๐ก๐ก๐๐ง ๐๐ก๐ก๐๐ง...
In his mind, it played again.
Not as a sound
But as a question that refused to fade.
And a story that refused to end.
Mayank was waiting for two hours only for that sound. "She'll be here, Aabir," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the crossroads. "Same place. Same time. The ghungroo doesn't lie." Aabir shoved his hands into his pockets. "You said that yesterday." "I'll say it tomorrow too." Mayank replied him.
Minutes passed. Students moved around them, laughing, bargaining, rushing. But no glasses with fog, no jingling ghungroos.
Then, Mayank's eyes caught A car, slowing in front of the college gate. Sleek. Polished. Jet black. The kind of car his family didn't own. The kind his world rarely touched. It bore a familiar emblem. A crest etched on the door.
'๐๐ก๐ ๐๐๐ฌ ๐๐๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฒ ๐๐๐ซ.'
Mayank blinked, heart quickening. Was she inside? Was this her world?
But something inside him told him not to look closer. Maybe it was the distance between their lives, or the fear of disappointment. Maybe it was just fate playing tricks again.
He shrugged and turned away, telling himself, It's probably nothing. Just someone else's car, or Don't chase something that's not meant for you.
Aabir nudged him. "You're zoning out, bro." Mayank forced a small smile. "Nothing. Let's keep looking."
They moved deeper into the crowd, eyes darting over umbrellas and backs, searching for a glimpse of the girl with the ghungroo keychain. The girl who didn't even know he existed. But today, like yesterday, she was nowhere to be found.
And the sound of chhan chhan faded into the hum of the busy street.
"She's not coming, man," Aabir said, not unkindly. Mayank nodded. "Maybe."
They slipped back into the crowd, two shadows moving in a world that didn't slow down for love or longing.
But far behind them, someone stepped onto the pavement with a bag slung across her shoulder and a silence in her steps but no ghungroo today.
No chhan chhan.
Just the city humming, indifferent to almosts.
---
๐ท๐๐๐'๐ ๐ท๐๐ โ ๐ฐ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ช๐๐, ๐บ๐๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐.
The windshield wipers moved in a slow, rhythmic sway... left, right, left.... cutting lines into the mist that blanketed the glass. Paro sat silently in the backseat, her fingers cold despite the plush warmth of the car's leather interior. She hadn't spoken since they left home. Her head leaned against the window, watching the world rush past in dull colors. Blurred umbrellas. Faded posters. A boy trying to sell roses at a red light. The city was waking up in shades of grey and gold, but inside her, the morning felt colourless.
Her anklet jingled faintly as she shifted... not the ghungroo keychain, but the memory of it, hidden deep in her drawer at home. She hadn't worn it today. Didn't feel like carrying parts of the past.
Paro's heart fluttered a little, not from excitement, but from the weight of everything waiting inside. The polished building, the busy students, the endless noise felt like a world apart from the quiet, cold mansion she left behind.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass window for a moment, watching the crowd spill onto the wet pavement umbrella tops bobbing like scattered petals, faces blurred by rain and distance. Somewhere in that mass of strangers, two boys stood hoping to find a girl who didn't even know they were looking.
She pulled her books closer, the weight of the project papers grounding her. Today was about IMS Her college.... The assignments, the group work, the new start she desperately needed.
The car slowed, approaching the gates of her college. She caught a glimpse of the old bookstore across the street. The same one she had wandered past yesterday, where the sound of ghungroos had briefly caught someone's attention.
Why did it feel like something was always missing, even when everything was perfectly in place? She thought.
Paro didn't know anyone was out there looking for her. Didn't know that two boys were standing nearby, hoping for a sign, a sound, a chance.
The car came to a gentle stop. The door opened, and she stepped out gracefully, her bag swinging lightly by her side. As the driver waited silently, she glanced once more at the busy street, a small breath escaping her lips.
She paused just before stepping out, feeling something shift in her chest. Not pain. Not joy. Justโฆ that unshakable feeling of being seen by no one and still hoping someone might. She looked once.... just once.... at the street across, then dismissed it. Nothing. No one. Just the usual crowd.
No one here would recognize her today. No one here was searching for the girl in the car.
The door shut behind her.
And the moment passed.
With a quiet resolve, she turned and walked toward the college gates.... ready to face the day on her own terms.