People only noticed performances.

The applause.

The lights.

The polished dialogues.

The final version.

Nobody noticed what existed before perfection.

The mistakes.

The frustration.

The trembling hands holding scripts at midnight.

The tears hidden behind determination.

The silent moments when someone questioned whether they belonged where they stood.

Art demanded honesty.

And honesty-

was exhausting.

The theatre department had always carried a strange kind of magic.

Chaos lived there.

Dreams lived there.

Fear lived there too.

Young people carrying impossible hopes.

Trying to become someone.

Trying to prove something.

Trying to survive.

And somewhere inside those crowded halls-

Krishni mathur quietly fought battles nobody noticed.

Because sometimes-

the strongest people were simply

people who learned how to smile while struggling.

The theatre hall smelled like dust.

Paint.

Old curtains.

Wood.

Memories.

Home.

I stood near stage left holding three scripts, one notebook and approximately eighteen responsibilities I absolutely did not ask for.

"Krishni!"

"Hm?"

"Lighting notes?"

"Bag."

"Music cue file?"

"Table."

"Scene transitions?"

"Notebook."

"How are you remembering everything?"

"I'm not."

"Then?"

"I'm surviving."

"That's concerning."

"Thank you."

The annual theatre showcase had officially become everyone's problem.

Especially mine.

Because somehow-

through terrible luck and emotional suffering-

I had become student coordinator.

Wonderful.

Amazing.

Absolutely beautiful.

"KRISHNI!"

I closed my eyes.

Counted mentally.

One.

Two.

Three.

Patience.

"WHAT?"

Ridhi appeared dramatically.

"We have a problem."

"We always have a problem."

"No bigger problem."

"Define bigger."

"Rahul forgot his dialogue sheet."

I stared.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Unfortunately yes."

I slowly looked upward.

"Krishn."

"Don't involve Krishn."

"He deserves to know what I'm suffering through."

"You're being dramatic."

"I study theatre."

"Fair."

I walked toward backstage.

People moved everywhere.

Costumes.

Props.

Sound checks.

Conversations overlapping endlessly.

Chaos.

Pure chaos.

And somehow-

I loved it.

The strange thing about theatre-

it exhausted me.

Completely.

Yet somehow-

it made me feel alive too.

Professor Arvind entered.

Instant silence.

Danger.

Visible danger.

"Progress report."

Nobody moved.

Wonderful.

"Krishni."

Of course.

Always.

"Sir."

"Performance structure?"

"Almost complete."

"Transitions?"

"Working."

"Music coordination?"

"Done."

"Lead rehearsal?"

"Pending."

"Why?"

"Time management issues."

"Meaning?"

"People."

"Understandable."

A few students quietly laughed.

"Krishni."

"Sir?"

"You're doing well."

My fingers slowly tightened around the notebook.

Something unexpectedly uncomfortable settled inside my chest.

Praise.

I hated praise.

Not because I disliked it.

Because praise felt dangerous.

Expectations followed praise.

Pressure followed expectations.

And pressure-

already lived permanently inside my brain.

Lunch break arrived.

Finally.

I sat quietly outside beneath a tree.

Notebook open.

Sandwich untouched.

Typical.

My brain refused to slow down.

Performance notes.

Script revisions.

Assignments.

Deadlines.

Dreams.

The flute.

The dreams.

Always the dreams.

The voice from yesterday still echoed quietly inside my head.

"You came."

Warm.

Gentle.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

Why?

Why did it feel-

important?

"You're thinking again."

I looked up.

Ridhi.

Of course.

"I'm existing."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

She sat beside me.

Studying me quietly.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

"What?" I asked.

"You've changed."

"No."

"Yes."

"I haven't."

"You disappear more."

"I don't."

"You smile less."

Silence.

"I smile normally."

"No."

Something quietly settled between us.

The uncomfortable kind.

The honest kind.

"You know..." Ridhi spoke softly.

"You don't always have to carry everything alone."

My throat tightened unexpectedly.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

"Who says I am?"

"You."

"I literally didn't."

"Exactly."

I looked away.

Because sometimes-

people who know you deeply-

notice things you desperately try hiding.

And lately-

hiding had become easier.

Stress.

Fear.

Questions.

Loneliness.

Dreams I didn't understand.

Thoughts that never stopped.

Sometimes-

even breathing felt heavy.

And somehow-

nobody noticed.

Or maybe-

I simply didn't let them.

Evening rehearsal stretched longer than expected.

The theatre hall slowly emptied.

Students left one by one.

Voices faded.

Silence settled.

Only stage lights remained.

Soft.

Golden.

Quiet.

I sat near the edge of the stage.

Legs dangling.

Notebook resting beside me.

The empty theatre felt beautiful.

Almost sacred.

Thousands of stories had lived here.

People becoming someone else.

People finding themselves.

People breaking quietly.

Healing quietly.

Growing quietly.

Wind moved softly through an open backstage window.

My fingers unconsciously touched the lotus mark resting against my palm.

Warm.

Always warm.

The silence felt strange tonight.

Heavy.

Like waiting.

Like something stood just beyond understanding.

Watching.

Patient.

Ancient.

No.

Not again.

I stood immediately.

Bag.

Notebook.

Leave.

Now.

My footsteps moved quickly toward backstage.

The corridor stretched empty.

Dark.

Silent.

Then-

the flute.

My entire body froze instantly.

No.

No no no.

Not here.

Not again.

The melody echoed softly.

Beautiful.

Gentle.

Impossible.

Closer.

Much closer.

My heartbeat began racing.

Cold spread quietly beneath my skin.

The sound floated through backstage curtains.

Pulling.

Calling.

My feet moved.

No.

I shouldn't.

I knew I shouldn't.

Yet-

I moved anyway.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Dark curtains shifted softly.

Wind moved.

The sound became clearer.

Closer.

Closer-

And suddenly-

I stopped.

Someone stood near center stage.

Motionless.

Dark clothing.

Silent.

My breathing completely stopped.

No.

Impossible.

The stage lights flickered softly.

One second.

Two.

Three.

The figure slowly turned-

And disappeared.

Gone.

Completely gone.

"No."

The whisper left quietly.

No.

I saw someone.

I definitely-

"Krishni?"

I nearly screamed.

Professor Arvind stood near entrance.

Concern visible immediately.

"You okay?"

"Sir-"

"You look pale."

"There was-"

My voice stopped.

Because what exactly would I say?

Hello sir.

A mysterious possibly ancient person keeps appearing around me.

Normal.

Completely normal.

"Nothing sir."

Silence.

He studied me carefully.

Then quietly-

"Go home."

"I-"

"Rest."

"Sir-"

"Go."

That night-

rain arrived.

Soft.

Gentle.

The city slowly slept beneath clouds.

I sat near my bedroom window.

Notebook open.

Blank page.

Again.

Wonderful.

My fingers slowly traced the lotus mark resting against my palm.

Warm.

Always.

Warm.

Who am I?

The thought arrived suddenly.

Sharp.

Unexpected.

Why these dreams?

Why this flute?

Why this feeling-

that something waited-

for me?

Thunder echoed quietly outside.

Wind moved softly.

My eyes slowly drifted toward Krishna's small murti resting near my study table.

Peace settled immediately.

Always.

Every single time.

"You know something."

The whisper left quietly.

Silence.

Expected.

"You always know something."

Wind moved softly.

The peacock feather resting near the murti shifted gently.

My breathing quietly slowed.

And for reasons I couldn't explain-

my heart felt calmer.

Not fixed.

Not healed.

Just-

held.

That night-

the dream didn't come.

Only silence.

Only darkness.

Only peaceful sleep.

But just before dawn-

somewhere between dreams and waking-

one sentence echoed quietly-

Warm.

Gentle.

Ancient.

"Not yet."

And somehow-

I knew-

whoever waited-

would return.

My outfit

Thanks

Gaura 🧿

Stay tuned