The final week of school arrived with the hush of something sacred.
The corridors smelled of old paper and ink, the benches bore marks of years gone by—doodles, initials, scratched-out equations. Vishakha walked slowly through it all, drinking in every sound, every glance, every thread of memory stitched into the bricks and window panes. Her last high school Monday.
She smiled at a teacher she'd once feared and now respected. She waved at a junior scribbling furiously in a corner of the library—probably a piece for the next Listening Room event. Things had changed. So had she.
The Listening Room had become more than a club. It had turned into a rhythm in the school's life. New faces came every month—each with their truth to share, each weaving their voice into the growing chorus of unheard stories now finally echoing through classrooms and courtyards.
Vishakha no longer felt like she was "stepping up" to anything. She had simply stepped in—into herself, into her space, into the light she had once been afraid to claim.
Graduation was three days away.
She'd been asked to deliver the farewell address.
That night, she sat one last time at her desk, the Pratibha trophy still standing quietly in the corner. She ran her fingers over the spine of her old diary and turned to the back page, where the torch drawing had faded slightly with time. Beside it, she started to write.
Farewell Address – Draft 1
To Those Still Walking These Corridors
When I first walked into this school, I thought strength meant standing tall, speaking loud, leading from the front.
But I was wrong.
Strength is also choosing to listen when it's easier to speak. It's saying "I'm afraid" and still moving forward. It's letting others shine, even if your light flickers quietly.
Over the years, I've worn many badges—Class Representative, performer, speech-giver. But the badge that mattered most wasn't visible. It was simply this: I found my voice. And I chose to use it for something more than just myself.
To those of you still figuring things out—please don't rush.
You don't need to have all the answers now.
You don't need to roar to be heard.
You only need to begin. One whisper at a time. One brave moment. One honest truth. And you'll find, as I did, that your voice will rise—not just to speak, but to carry others with it.
And when it does, you'll see: the path you're walking is wider than you think, and you were never alone on it.
Thank you, for being part of mine.
The day of the farewell arrived.
The assembly hall was a sea of blue uniforms, camera flashes, and proud, teary-eyed parents. Teachers stood quietly at the back. The juniors had prepared a surprise skit. Someone even sang a goodbye song to the tune of an old Hindi film classic.
When Vishakha was called to the stage, she paused at the steps, just for a second. She looked out at the faces—some she knew, some she'd never spoken to. All of them had shared this space, this chapter, this story.
She delivered the speech from her heart, not the page. Her voice was calm, sure, with a softness that didn't seek attention but still held it.
When she said the line, "You don't need to roar to be heard," the audience fell utterly silent. Even the teachers seemed to hold their breath.
And when she finished, the applause came slowly. Then steadily. Then all at once.
In the days that followed, goodbyes came in waves. Sharp, surprising, sometimes silly.
Friends wrote notes in each other's yearbooks. Teachers gave small, quiet blessings. The principal called her aside on the last day and said, "You've changed the air of this place, Vishakha. And that's no small thing."
She smiled, bowed her head slightly, and whispered, "Thank you."
Her last act before leaving the school grounds was small but deliberate.
She walked back to the amphitheatre—the birthplace of The Listening Room—and taped a single sheet of paper under the wooden bench in the center. On it, in her neatest handwriting, was this:
If you're here, you have a voice.
If you're unsure, you have a place.
This space is yours. Speak, write, sing, be.
Someone is listening.
—V
Then she walked away, slow and unhurried, the setting sun casting long shadows behind her.
It was the end of a chapter. But it didn't feel like an end.
It felt like the first note of a new song.