Somewhere Between Almost and Always

Chapter 1 ?

My mother's face lit up with pride, and my father, who had been in the next room, rushed in to congratulate me. The air was filled with excitement, but what came next was completely unexpected.

"Get ready," my father said, with a mischievous smile. "We're going somewhere."

A mix of curiosity and excitement bubbled up inside me. We arrived at the showroom, and I was left speechless when I saw the scooter—my reward. My heart swelled with gratitude as my father handed me the keys. It wasn't just a scooter; it was the symbol of everything I had worked for, every sleepless night, and every moment of doubt. But more than that, it was his way of saying, "You did it." Papa rarely share things with me even if he's very sad, he will keep things to himself but I know he loves me so much. It's not me who is saying this but my father's gestures.

I snapped out of my thoughts when my friends called. Arghh!!" A VIDEO CALL". I picked up the call. We talked for a while. Krishna got 95.2%, Swati got 94.6%, Chandni got 94.4%, Parul got 96.3% and Asha got 90.2%. Then we bickered a bit about our class and then I ended the call. I informed their marks to my parents as well.

The next day, after the celebrations had settled down, I sat with my family to play a game of Ludo. Laughter filled the air as we played, but something small and significant happened in that moment. My father didn't once kill my piece. A silent gesture, but one that spoke volumes. He wasn't just playing to win—he was playing to let me win, to quietly cheer me on. I felt my chest swell with pride as I realized that it wasn't just the 93.4% that mattered—it was the love, support, and understanding that had come with it. My father's quiet encouragement was the reward I would always treasure.

That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about everything that had led me to this moment. The late-night study sessions, the pressure of exams, and the feeling of uncertainty. But now, there was only gratitude and joy. This was the moment I would carry with me forever—not just for the score I'd earned, but for the love and support of my parents that had always been there, quietly cheering me on.

Next Day

I woke up early cause I decided to clean my room today for my upcoming academic year. Our school will reopen after 2 weeks. Before that I have arrange my books, copies, references my coaching everything. I started cleaning my room. I cleaned my bookshelf and my study table. I made empty spaces for my new books and other things . While cleaning I came across my old school magazines and some group photos of our childhood. It was worn out—edges torn a little, the cover dulled with time—but the moment I held it, my heart felt something warm. I smiled. God, how long has it been?

As I flipped through the pages, my eyes suddenly caught a photo of me—dancing. There I was, right in the middle of the stage, frozen in a twirl, eyes lit up, smile wide, completely lost in the rhythm. I remembered that moment so clearly. The lights. The nervousness. The applause. I almost teared up.

Then came another picture—me sitting on the floor, surrounded by bright colours. Rangoli competition day. I remember smudging chalk dust all over my skirt and ending up with petals in my hair, but oh, how proud I was of that design.

And then I saw that picture. The one that made me burst out laughing. 

"The Late Eater." There I was, all alone at the lunch table, still chewing while everyone else had already run off to class. Trust me to make even eating an event worth documenting. I was in 1st grade at that time. 

I closed the magazine gently, my hand resting over the cover for a second longer. That version of me—the one who danced, created, laughed loudly, and never rushed her food—is still somewhere inside me. She hasn't gone anywhere.
Sometimes, when I think about those days, it feels like I'm looking at someone else. That girl in the magazine... she was so alive, so full of light. She danced without thinking who was watching, made rangolis like every colour belonged to her, and laughed even when her lunch break ran out. She didn't rush. She didn't overthink. She just was. 

And now?

Now I pause before laughing too loud. I second-guess before doing something silly. I scroll through memories more than I make new ones. And sometimes, I wonder where did she go?

But maybe she didn't disappear. Maybe she's just resting... waiting for me to bring her back. Piece by piece. 

But when I shut the magazine, something fluttered down onto my lap.

A greeting card.

The kind you exchange with people who promise to stay forever.

I opened it with a strange hesitance. The handwriting was hers my once best friend. Inside, it read:
"We will never separate. We'll trust each other till the end of life."

My chest tightened.

She'd written that like it was carved in stone. And yet, she walked away—just like that. In the middle of my most crucial year, when every ounce of support mattered. All for someone she barely knew. One month. That's all it took for her to forget me.

I held the card close to my heart, eyes stinging with the weight of unspoken pain.

But beneath the ache, something stirred—resilience. Because despite her absence, I survived. I aced my exams. I smiled again. And maybe I'm not the same girl in those photographs, but I'm stronger now.

And that card?
It doesn't define what I lost.
It reminds me of what I overcame.