Myra's Silent Story

The college canteen was too loud today. I mean, it is always loud, but today it felt like my head would blast. It was peak lunch hour, 1:30 pm, and every single table was taken. Someone was laughing too loudly near the counter, a group of juniors were literally fighting for one chair, and the canteen boy was shouting order numbers continuously - 45, 46, 47 - without even taking a breath. The smell of hot samosas and oil was everywhere, mixed with perfume. I was sitting at the corner table. The last table, the one nobody really wants. The one near the dustbin and the wash basin. My tray was in front of me - one cold samosa that had become hard, and a tea that I hadn't touched. The tea had already formed that thin white layer on top, I hate that layer. I just felt out of place. So out of place. Everyone had their group, their circle. The girls from my class, the popular ones with perfect makeup, were all together, clicking pictures, making reels for i********:, laughing. The boys were all talking loudly about the upcoming college fest auditions. And I was just... there. Present, but not really part of anything. Like a background character. It feels so weird sometimes. You are surrounded by so many people, maybe 100 people in one room, but you still feel completely alone. Like you are watching a movie of other people's lives, but you are not in the movie. You are just sitting in the dark audience, watching. My chest felt a little tight. That weird anxiety feeling started again. The one where your heart beats too fast, like a drum, and your hands become sweaty and cold at the same time. I knew this feeling. So I did what I always do when this happens - I held my diary tight. It's old. Very old. The black leather is all scratched because I carry it everywhere, the edges are faded and the corners are bent. I have been carrying it for almost a year now, every single day, even to the washroom. If someone else sees it from far, it's just a normal diary. A simple black diary. But for me, it's everything. It's the only friend that doesn't ask me to speak. It doesn't judge. Last year, after the accident, everything changed. I was in the car with my father. It was raining very heavily, like cats and dogs. I don't want to go into the full details because even now when I think about that night, my hands start shaking and my throat goes dry. But after that day, after that sound, I stopped speaking. Completely. The doctors in Indore checked everything. They did so many tests. They said there is no physical damage to my throat. My vocal cords are perfectly fine. It's psychological trauma. My voice just... got locked inside me. Like someone put a lock on my throat. In the beginning, for two-three months, I used to try hard. I would open my mouth in class when the teacher asked me something and try to force a sound out, but nothing would come out. Zero sound. People would stare at me. First with confusion, then with that pity look. I hated that pity look more than anything in the world. That "oh poor girl, " look. So I stopped trying. I stopped opening my mouth. And I started writing instead. Whatever I couldn't say, whatever was stuck in my throat, I wrote in this diary. If I was angry at the world, I wrote 10 pages. If I cried at 2 AM in my room because I missed my old self - the girl who used to talk non-stop in school, who used to be the loudest in class - I wrote. If I felt alone and invisible, I wrote. No one has ever read it. Not even Nidhi, not even Nesha fully. It's the only place where I can be loud. Where I can shout as much as I want. I looked at my phone, the screen was on. Nidhi had texted me twice. "Where are you? Come to library fast, ma'am is asking for you. Attendance." "Library fast. 5 mins. Ma'am is angry." I had to go. Right now. The canteen was suffocating me anyway. The noise, the people, the loud laughter, the smell of oil - it was too much for my brain. The library is the only place in this whole college where I can actually breathe properly. It's quiet there. No one asks you anything. No one expects you to reply. You can just sit in a corner and be invisible, and that's totally okay there. I quickly put my phone in my bag. Picked up my tray, put it back on the counter near boy, and held my diary tightly in my right hand. My bag was heavy with books - physics, chemistry - but I didn't care. I just wanted to get out of that loud place. I started walking fast towards the exit door. I was still looking down at my phone, typing a reply to Nidhi with one hand, with my thumb. My typing was messy because I was walking. "Coming in 2 mins - library". At the exact same time, from the other side of the main corridor, Aryan was coming inside the canteen. Of course, Aryan Malhotra. You can't miss him even if you want to. You can't. Everyone in this college knows him. The guitarist boy. The guy who performed at last year's annual fest with his band and all the junior girls went crazy and shouted his name. Messy hair, that carefree smile that everyone talks about, and always surrounded by 4-5 friends who laugh at everything he says. He was laughing about something right now, his head turned back towards his friends, talking. He was not looking in front at all. He was walking like he owns the whole corridor. And in his hand, he was holding a diary too. A black diary. It was strange. I had never seen him with a diary before. He always had a guitar on his back or his phone in his hand. But today it was a black diary. Almost exactly like mine. Same color, same black leather type, same size. From a distance, you couldn't tell the difference at all. I noticed it for half a second and then looked back at my phone. I was in a hurry and I didn't want to make eye contact with anyone. Especially not him, not today. We both took the sharp turn near the water cooler at the same time. The corner there is so blind. You can't see who is coming from the other side. Neither of us stopped. Both were fast. Thud! We crashed into each other. Properly. Not a side bump, a full hard crash, chest to chest. My bag fell from my shoulder with a loud thud sound. His diary slipped from his hand and flew two feet away. My diary also fell. My phone fell too and slid under someone's bench. Some loose papers from my bag, my assignment sheets, my rough notes, flew everywhere on the floor. It was such a mess. Such an embarrassing mess in front of everyone. For a second, the whole corridor went silent and everyone looked at us. Ten to twelve people just stared, some girls giggled. My face went completely red. I could feel the heat on my cheeks and my ears burning. I hate being the center of attention. I hate it when people look at me. I want to be invisible always. Aryan looked irritated and a bit angry. He bent down to pick up his things quickly. "Can't you see where you're going? Can't you walk properly?" he said. His voice was loud and a little rude. His friends behind him chuckled a bit. I wanted to say sorry. I really, really wanted to. The word "sorry" was right there in my mind, I was screaming it inside my head loudly, but it just wouldn't come out of my mouth. Nothing came out. No sound. I just stood there, frozen, like a statue, like a fool. I quickly bent down and started picking up my books. My hands were shaking so badly that I couldn't even hold the papers properly, they kept falling. I saw a black diary near my feet and I just grabbed it. I thought it was mine. They looked exactly the same, identical. I grabbed my phone, which had a small scratch on the screen now, my bag, and I just ran. I didn't even look back at him. I just wanted to disappear from there. I wanted the floor to swallow me. I ran straight to the library, my heart beating so fast that I thought everyone in the corridor could hear my heartbeat. I went to the last row, the corner seat where no one sits, and sat down. I was breathing heavily, like I had run a race. It was only when I reached the library stairs and finally opened the diary to write about how embarrassed I felt, how much I hated today, that I realized something was terribly wrong. This was not my diary. The pages were different. The paper quality was a bit rough, not soft like mine. The handwriting inside was not mine. It was big, messy, boy handwriting, with English words. On the very first page, in big capital letters with a black marker, it was written - "Aryan's Chords & Lyrics - DO NOT OPEN. PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL" And inside, there were guitar chords, C, G, Am, F, half-written songs, some English lyrics, and random thoughts like "call sound guy before fest" "fest list - 4 songs". Oh god. Oh my god. I had taken his diary. By mistake. That means... he has mine. My diary. With all my secrets. All my unsaid things. All my tears. Everything. My heart stopped beating for a second. ---------------------- To be continued.... Next Chapter Tomorrow