Short Story by Raconteuse

 Ananya had always believed that people left in instalments. Not always all at once—sometimes in quiet fractions. A delayed reply. A canceled plan. A slow fading of laughter that once came easily. She had learned to notice these things early, the way some people learn to read the weather. At ten, she learned what it meant for someone to leave completely. Her father’s absence did not arrive loudly—it seeped in, like dusk. At eleven, grief returned, less patient this time, and took her sibling too. After that, she stopped asking life for explanations. Loss, she realized, did not negotiate. Her mother remained—the only constant, the only proof that love could endure even when everything else slipped through your fingers. But even love, she understood, could not stop change. It could only soften its edges. So Ananya grew up becoming fluent in goodbyes. Teachers changed schools. Friends changed cities. Laughter changed its address. She carried people like pressed flowers in the pages of...

"How much is enough?" A question that clings to my thoughts like ivy on crumbling stone — persistent, quiet, but impossible to ignore. Today, that question has anchored itself deep within me. The interview didn’t go as I had hoped. Not even close. When we prepare for interviews, we expect a binary outcome — either we crash and burn or we emerge victorious. For me, I was bracing for the former. I’ve always had a tempestuous relationship with interviews. Once, I grew so anxious that I forgot foundational terms from my own profession. That memory still burns. The interviewer, expression unreadable, had said,  “Ma’am, if you do hear from us, it will be solely based on your stellar CV. The person described there and the one who sat here today are worlds apart.” Two years have passed, yet I recall every detail — especially because, in a 20-minute interview, all I managed to say was:  “I don’t know, Sir.” Not “I don’t recall,” but the raw, unfiltered, and utterly unforgivable:  ...

Cumulonimbus. I murmur it softly to myself, the word slipping out like a secret, knowing that no one else around me on the subway would understand it. They never do. The hum of the train, the faint rhythm of tired footsteps, and the distant murmur of conversation—everything is so achingly ordinary. Yet, I am anything but ordinary. I’ve always been the quiet one, the odd duck. I suppose it’s something I’ve accepted. The people I share my subway ride with, their faces masked in exhaustion, know this as well. The train car is dense with bodies, the evening rush hour pulling us all towards the same unspoken end. My job as a stenographer doesn’t help matters. It’s mundane, lifeless—taking shorthand, typing notes at a fancy office building—nothing that demands more than my fingertips. My business degree, my graduation summa cum laude, all feel like distant echoes. I never asked for this life. But here I am, spending each day in the throes of discontent, earning the minimum wage that barely a...

In the hushed stillness of a rainy evening, as the world outside was cloaked in muted hues of grey, I sat beside the window, letting the soft, insistent drizzle obscure the sharp lines of my thoughts. The past three months had unfurled before me like an unexpected letter, one I hadn’t foreseen but could not now imagine living without. Marriage, at least the way I had envisioned it, was supposed to be tidy, like a perfectly folded letter, crisp and direct. But this—"we"—was something far more intricate, far more exquisite. I had assumed I knew what love was. After all, doesn’t everyone at some point believe they understand it? But then I found him. I found "us", and the shape of it was unlike anything I had anticipated. I recall, in passing, before we were even engaged, saying that I would not take his surname after marriage. To me, it represented a deeper autonomy I wasn’t willing to surrender. But months later, standing at the altar, the priest casually mentioned t...

  Dear Edena, I, honestly, do not know where to begin. Last time I wrote a letter was for my school assignment. I battled with the thought of telling you everything in person but it seemed better to leave you this letter so that you read it alone.  When Avyaan first told me about you, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous. Not a lot but I was. Could have been because we had just started dating and he had to move. He ended up becoming friends with you so soon that I almost thought I would be forgotten. But to his credit, he didn’t let a day pass by where he didn’t make me feel special. He made sure distance was just something temporary. I had no complaints. He might have sensed that his friends made me envious so he curtailed the discussions about you all.  When I decided to surprise him and you offered to let me stay with you, I liked you immediately. All my inhibitions seemed to have gone out the window. You are genuinely the most benevolent person I have known....

Hey, Mom! Sorry, mom! I haven't written to you in so long. It is almost six months. I was caught up in the coursework for my Diploma. You really encouraged me to study and after the pandemic, I was really low and in between jobs. I decided to pursue the course. It wasn't a big deal because it was just a diploma. I didn't want to bother you with it.  Since I am writing to you, I know you must have figured out something is wrong. I have a nagging feeling lately. I wonder what would have happened if romantic movies/stories became a reality. It’s just a wishful thinking. This has been a recurring thought for almost three months now. I was in denial for almost two months until one day I succumbed to the obvious. Avyaan is the cause of all the upheaval in my life. My life wasn’t great before I met him but at least the only sorted thing was my incapacity to get infatuated to someone.  As you are aware, I had been in a complicated relationship for nine years. You remember Viraj?...

 "Childhood love stories are the proof of one's naïveté. Not calculated or augured. Just run by compulsive hormones- first, pheromones and then, dopamine", I say as I sip my Diet Coke through the paper straw. I hate the paper straws. I mean they are good for the environment but they get soggy really soon, as has happened with me. He has asked me so many questions about my job as an associate manager, my BBA and MBA, and how I liked the job in my present company. His questions and excitement thwarted my efforts to ask him anything at all.  Viaan has done the impossible- he made me talk about my feelings. I rarely do that with strangers. Yet, here we are. I am talking and he is looking at me with an inexplicable gaze. I want to look in his eyes. I want the time to stand still. But neither I can nor the Universe can do that. His eyes have a piercing look. Every time I try to look into them, I get shifty. I know as a matter of fact that I still don't hold a candle to all ...

The frantic knocking on the door made me reluctantly leave my bed. I spend most of my days in bed these days. It's been 3 months since that horrendous evening. I close my eyes and replay those two days in my head endless number of times. I always want it to end differently. I open my eyes and it never changes. Tears are my only companion. The pain hasn't changed. It still hurts.  On hearing the knock, I wipe the tears and try to shake the sadness away. I try, but fail. I go to open the door. It is my friends. I have been avoiding them for 3 months now. To be honest, I haven't been out at all. I haven't been to any open mic. I just work on my proofreading job at home and order food. These food apps have made life so much easier. I talk to my parents over call. After one week of that unspeakable evening, I told them that Mohit wasn't the one. They did try to reason it out but I simply said that I don't want anything to do with him. They didn't pester me any mo...