The train pulled out of the station with a low, steady rumble, a sound that echoed somewhere deep inside Vishakha's chest. She sat by the window, a small suitcase tucked under her seat and a journal on her lap, the cover still blank. The pages inside were clean and untouched—like the months ahead.
Outside, the familiar contours of her city blurred: the temple archway, the yellow-walled school she once passed each morning, the tiny chai stall that had once gifted her courage with a warm smile and half a sentence. All of it growing smaller, until it slipped behind her like a finished sentence.
Vishakha was on her way to college.
It wasn't far—just two cities away—but something about the journey felt vast, even sacred. Her mother had cried a little, pretending not to. Ahan had packed her bag with two bars of chocolate and a tiny voice recording on her phone that said, "If you miss home, just press play." Her father had hugged her tighter than she expected, then quietly handed her a letter. Handwritten, folded carefully. She hadn't opened it yet.
She would. Not yet. Later.
Right now, she was watching the world shift.
The college gates loomed ahead by late afternoon—arched, ivy-draped, alive with the buzz of dozens of new beginnings. Vishakha stepped out of the auto, dragging her suitcase over uneven gravel. Her heart thumped wildly, though her expression stayed calm.
The campus was sprawling—red brick buildings framed by ancient trees, laughter bouncing off corridors, and a bulletin board already bursting with posters for clubs, auditions, and orientations.
She checked into her hostel, Room 108, which she was sharing with two others.
One of them was already there.
"Hi! You must be Vishakha," the girl said, cheerful and instantly familiar. "I'm Raina. From Hyderabad. Mass Comm."
Vishakha smiled, grateful. "Hi. English Lit."
They shook hands like grown-ups, then immediately collapsed into laughter.
"I brought way too many clothes," Raina groaned, lifting an enormous duffel bag onto her bed. "Also, I talk a lot. Just tell me to shut up if I overdo it."
Vishakha laughed again. "That's okay. I used to be quiet. Now I… talk when it matters."
"Cool," Raina grinned. "Then we'll balance each other."
That evening, they attended the welcome session in the college auditorium. Vishakha chose a seat three rows from the back—not hiding, just watching. Observing. Listening.
The dean gave a speech. Professors introduced themselves. Clubs performed short skits and musical acts. Everything was fresh, slightly chaotic, and full of possibility.
Then someone stepped onto the stage holding a mic. A girl, maybe a year older.
"I'm Sana," she said. "Second-year Sociology. And this is The Fifth Wall."
A few curious murmurs went through the audience.
"We're a performance collective," Sana continued. "We tell real stories, student stories, through theatre, spoken word, and film. If you've ever felt like your truth didn't belong anywhere—this space is for you."
Vishakha sat straighter.
She watched as a boy came onstage and read a poem about missing home-cooked food. A girl followed with a monologue about being the first girl in her family to go to college. The final act was a duet: a blend of slam poetry and dance, on what it felt like to unlearn silence.
Vishakha's breath caught.
This wasn't just familiar. It was home, echoing in a new language.
After the session ended, she walked up to Sana.
"That was beautiful," Vishakha said.
Sana looked at her, smiling with kind curiosity. "Thanks. You write?"
"I perform," Vishakha replied. "And I listen. A lot."
"Good," Sana said, handing her a flyer. "Auditions tomorrow. Come. Let's hear your story."
Back in her room, long after the chatter had died down and Raina had curled into her blanket, Vishakha sat at her desk with her journal open.
She uncapped her pen and wrote slowly on the first page:
This isn't a new story. It's the next verse.
Same voice, stronger echo.
She paused, pulled her father's letter from her bag, and finally unfolded it.
Dear Vishakha,
There are no maps for the places you're about to go—not the college, not the world, not the versions of yourself you'll meet along the way. But I know this: your voice is your compass. It will guide you. It will remind others who they are too. Keep it honest. Keep it brave.
And remember, home isn't where you start. It's where you return stronger.
With love,
Papa
She wiped a quiet tear and smiled, a steady warmth filling her chest.
Tomorrow, she'd audition. Maybe she'd stumble. Maybe she'd shine. But either way, she would begin.
And for the first time, the unknown didn't feel like a cliff.
It felt like a door.