Chiku Diaries

  Mridul, a boy newly touching seventeen, was a reader through and through, fiction was his only love. He’d devoured entire shelves of Sherlock Holmes, the Harry Potter series, and practically anything that smelled of mystery, magic, or crime. The library had become his second home, and over time, he’d developed a quiet company with the librarian. He came so often that even the regular visitors greeted him with familiarity. It was all routine—until she arrived. A girl. Unfamiliar face. And unlike most, she didn’t just visit once and vanish. She came every day, sharp, precise—always exactly 7 minutes after 5 PM. Not once early. Not once late. She never changed her outfit. A high ponytail tied with a red scrunchie, a fluid floral dress with a bow at the back. The same expression. The same silence. She sat at the exact same place the isolated left corner, second row, third shelf of fiction. What puzzled Mridul wasn’t just her punctuality or appearance. It was the book. She r...

  A sheath of blues the kind his quiet eyes carry settles over the sky, soft and slow. Below, the greens wait still, unwritten, like something about to be felt. Then heaven falls, spilling nectar, and the sky remembers what it’s like to feel. Numbers blur. Pink slips into the room on walls, on breath, on everything unsaid. Then thunder. Stillness. Eyes meet. Like the world stepped back to let the moment breathe. And in that quiet chaos, something begins the feel when blue meets green.

 Puzzles are interesting, comforting at times, but frustrating when just one piece goes missing. That single gap is enough to ruin the entire picture. No matter how close we were to finishing, it still feels incomplete. Usually, the missing piece is somewhere nearby, under the sofa, stuck to your notebook, or sitting unnoticed on the table. And yet, you search the whole house, stressing over something that was never really far. It’s the same with us. Sometimes, one just craves for one missing piece, sometimes the piece is as simple as a hug, a pat on the back saying “you did your best,” or maybe sometimes it’s just as simple as a few hours of sleep. But instead, we search everywhere, thinking it’s money, validation. We dig so far outside that we forget to look beside us. Around us. Sometimes, the missing piece was right there all along. Luckily to some of us, they find their missing hug soon, which searching for something else, but for some, who actually crave for appreciat...

 They tell you, dream big, chase stars, be bold. But not too loud. Speak your dreams softly, or not at all. Especially not to your own people. If your dream can’t be priced, it will be mocked. If it doesn’t fit a form, it will be folded and thrown. Need rest? You’re lazy. Need space? You’re selfish. Need meaning? You’re dramatic. Want to create? Make money instead. Want to help? Help yourself first. Want to live? Not like that. Speak up and you’re arrogant. Fall silent and you’re cold. Think differently and you’re unstable. Follow your own path, and suddenly - You’re the rebel. The ungrateful one. The child who ruined everything. Not because you failed. But because you didn’t follow the script. You could’ve been their perfect story, if only you had killed your own. But you didn’t. So now, what do you choose? To be the echo they applaud or the voice they fear? The obedient hero in their tale, or the villain in your own truth?

  It started as something strange. Every Friday, a letter in her mailbox. No name. No address. No social hints. Just soft, worn paper, and handwriting that felt like rain if it could write. At first, she thought it was a mistake. But by the third letter, she stopped questioning it. He noticed the kinds of things no one talks about, the way light shifted on library floors, how old songs made new wounds hurt less, how it felt to be filled with words but still be unseen. She never wrote back, not because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t know where to send it. She folded her thoughts into letters she never mailed. Until Letter 27. She went to the post office, pleaded, pieced together his possible route, and found an address, half-hope, half-luck. For the first time, she sent a letter. A week later, Letter 28 arrived. But it wasn’t him, he could never write such short letters. It was brief. Distant. "Wrong address, He doesn’t live here anymore. He left… us, everyo...