Stuck Voyage of 20's

(Because sometimes space doesn't break people — it just teaches them how to hold on without holding back.)

The train station was busy, chaotic — a mix of families hugging too tightly and strangers bumping shoulders without looking back.

Avantika stood on the platform, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, a soft calm over her face. She had always thought leaving would feel dramatic — tears, hesitation, a last look over the shoulder. But this wasn't a goodbye filled with ache. It was one filled with quiet courage.

Her phone buzzed.

> Dhruv: "Train on time?"

She smiled.

> Avantika: "Yeah. Platform 4. About to board. Window seat secured like a queen."

> Dhruv: "I'll miss bothering you with bad poetry."

> Avantika: "Send them anyway. I'll rate them while watching sunsets from my residency desk."

She paused.

Then added:

> Avantika: "I'm glad we didn't let love cage us."

> Dhruv: "We didn't. We let it breathe."

The announcement crackled overhead. She stepped onto the train.

As the city blurred into fields, she sat by the window, pulled out her notebook, and began to write again.

---

Back in Ujjain, Dhruv stood on the basketball court after dusk, watching the lights flicker on one by one. He'd spent the whole day training juniors — helping them pace themselves mentally and emotionally. One of the younger boys had asked him today:

"Sir, don't you miss just playing?"

He'd thought for a second, then replied, "Sometimes. But now I'm playing a different game — and this one's bigger than me."

He smiled, remembering that.

At home, his mother had begun to ask fewer questions and offer more ladoos. His father occasionally peeked into his room to ask about the Delhi trip. And Prerna had mailed him an article about sports psychology with a note: "You're already doing half of this. Just with more heart."

Life hadn't gotten easier. It had just started to feel like his own.

---

A week passed. Then two.

Avantika sent Dhruv a photo of her desk: sticky notes everywhere, cups of cold coffee, her laptop open to a half-finished draft.

> Avantika: "Guess who's writing about two confused 20-somethings trying to find their way back to themselves?"

> Dhruv: "Let me guess. A painfully handsome guy and a dangerously overthinking girl?"

> Avantika: "Close. But this time, they don't end up because of each other. They end up better because of themselves."

> Dhruv: "Oof. That one stung a little."

> Avantika: "Growth hurts, Kapoor."

He sent a voice note in return — just one line, softly spoken:

"But it also makes the ending sweeter."

She didn't reply for an hour. Then finally:

> Avantika: "Maybe we don't need an ending yet. Just new pages."

---

One night, Avantika stood on her balcony in the residency housing. She'd just finished a reading session with an author who once lived on ₹200 a day. The world felt different — heavier and freer all at once.

She looked up at the stars and thought of how far they'd both come.

Not just from each other.

But from their own fears.

From pleasing people.

From pretending.

From shrinking their hearts to fit into boxes.

She whispered, "We're not lost anymore, are we?"

No one answered. But the silence was kind.

---

At the same moment, Dhruv stood outside a bookstore in Delhi, just a few blocks from the conference venue. His presentation had gone well. His module had received praise. People asked questions that mattered.

He spotted a paperback on the window shelf titled "Unbecoming to Become."

And he thought — yes. That's what we're all doing.

---