Running dreams.

The blue notebook

Something flickered across Baba's face. I couldn’t name it.

“Who is this?”

“Aarav,” I said. “My classmate.”

Baba stared. Aarav stood. “Namaste, uncle.”

Baba nodded. “Sit.”

For the next ten minutes, Baba asked questions. His parents. His studies. His plans. His neighborhood. His father’s work. Aarav answered everything. Calmly. Respectfully.

When he left, Baba watched him disappear down the lane. Then he looked at me. “He’s a good boy.”

I smiled. “Really?”

“Yes.”

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I could still hear Baba’s voice. "He’s a good boy".

A month later, Aarav gave me a notebook. The cover was blue.

“What is this?”

“Your future.”

I laughed. “Very dramatic.”

“Open it.”

The first page was blank.

“What am I supposed to write?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Your dreams.”

I looked at him. “What if they change?”

“Then change them.” I smiled. He leaned against the wall.

I wrote on the first page: I want to become someone my younger self would be proud of.

Beneath it, without thinking:

I want to be loved without being afraid.

I closed the notebook. Aarav never saw that line. Not then.

That year, the monsoon lasted longer than usual. The rain came every evening. Sometimes Aarav would call just to listen to it with me.

“You know,” he said once, “rain sounds different at night.”

“How?”

“Like someone whispering.”

“Oh really”

He was quiet. “Like someone telling you to stay.”

I smiled. “I don’t want to stay.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Everywhere.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

I laughed. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“I’ll find out.”

It sounded romantic. It was romantic. At least, I thought it was.

The first time Aarav held my hand, neither of us spoke. We were crossing the road outside the railway station. A motorcycle sped past. I stumbled. His hand caught mine. Firm. Warm. Protective.

He didn’t let go immediately. Neither did I. For a few seconds, the whole town disappeared. The traffic. The vendors. The trains. The shouting. Everything. There was only his hand around mine.

Then he looked at me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t release me. “Meera.”

“What?”

“You don’t always have to say you’re fine.”

My eyes filled with tears. He noticed and squeezed my hand.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Anything. Whenever you’re ready.”