Maybe I'll write about it.

What do I write about? I kept questioning myself and patiently waited for my mind to speak up. I thought I should go take a stroll in the metro the other day, for I was struggling to shape my feelings and thoughts into coherent words that could capture the chaos within me. There was a discomfort—a gnawing uneasiness, like sensing a subtle shift in the air. It was uncomfortable, not being able to express myself was making me uncomfortable. 

What do I write about, now that I have let you go from the only place I was able to think. Like when, while sending an email, if the subject field is blank, the system refuses to send the email, or it asks you 'if you still want to send the email anyway'. Well, it’s pretty cold in here. I leaned over my laptop screen, still finding it difficult to enter the world of wonderment. I rubbed my hands to generate some heat in the palms as I realized my fingers started typing these words, this random gush of words that came through as soon as I thought about it- how it used to feel when even the extreme heat felt settling warm and calming, oh to be so stupid in love! Now, I realize I’ve run out of words for you. I have felt it enough to finally let you go along with the thought of you, but that’s just not the way life flows. Maybe love’s ending isn’t freedom but the echo of a melody that fades too soon, leaving the air heavy with what could have been. Perhaps, love’s ending has a strange aftertaste—it’s not the freedom I thought it would be. Instead, it’s hollow, like an unanswered question lingering in the air. Is that what life is all about? It’s unexpected, it’s unpredictable, it’s perishable and certainly, it leaves an indelible impact on your mind and forges a place in your heart for someone you want to go miles apart from. But no, if this is what life is all about then I’m sorry my dear, you’ve been fooled by many, into making you think that the very essence of life is sadness. It’s a big NO. Life isn’t meant to be a vessel for despair. It’s bigger, messier, and brighter than that. The constant ever flowing conversation with me kept going. 

While I was on the verge of giving up on shaping my thoughts, she boarded the train. As she sat there, her gaze fixed on the approaching station, there was an unspoken stillness about her. A subtle, rhythmic tapping of her fingers on the edge of the seat matched the hum of the train, as though she could hear music the rest of us couldn’t. When I spoke, she didn’t interrupt, not even with her eyes. There was something about her, an unhurried patience that felt rare, like finding a patch of quiet in a city that never sleeps. When she turned her ears toward me, the world felt quieter, and suddenly, my voice mattered. Her silence wasn’t empty; it felt full, like she was piecing together my words with care, leaving space for me to say even the things I hadn’t planned to.

We got to talking and then, hit her with a smile and said, “I wonder what it would be like to have a mindset like you”. She frowned, her big brown eyes narrowing, as if trying to fit her thoughts into words, “this is what makes us human. We think, a lot, and then when our mind gets tired of thinking endlessly, all the voices calm down on their own, and we’re left with no one else but us. And if that’s not the most beautiful thing about being a human then I don’t know what else is!”, she said.

"When I look at life now, I only see it moving forward, waiting for no one. It runs on its own speed and time, completely unbothered by the uncertainties of what would happen next or what could go wrong in the near future. But why do we even think about something we have no control over? An intelligent being wouldn’t dwell on what’s beyond measure or prediction.", she added. 

"Hmm!", I said, as if trying to connect with what she just said. We both knew this moment would be going places and people with us forever. Meeting her was beyond usual and not a slight coincidence. It was more of a reminder that sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is your undivided attention. She showed me that listening isn’t a passive act—it’s a quiet transformation. Crossing paths with her felt like a meeting written by the writer up there.

Four stations with her felt like four lifetimes. As soon as she deboarded at NSIC station, the air felt heavier, as if carrying the weight of all she left unsaid. Days later, her voice still lingered, not in words but in the silence that followed, like a ghost flying on the edges of my thoughts. Maybe it’s how some people exist—not to stay, but to leave behind a feeling that refuses to fade. As I find it difficult to articulate my thoughts more profoundly, didn't even for a slightest second have I thought that maybe someday, I will write about it.