By Swati Sinha
She’s had so many conversations.
But most of them,
never left her head.
They lived somewhere
between a breath and a silence,
then quietly disappeared.
At the billing counter in the mall,
she almost made a joke,
about the never-ending queue.
It was a good one.
But she just smiled politely,
while the person behind her sighed,
and the cashier didn’t look up.
In group discussions,
her thoughts came too early or too late.
She nodded.
She almost interrupted.
She almost said something brilliant.
But someone else said it first,
said it louder.
And the moment passed.
In the kitchen,
she stared at the tomatoes,
like they might decide for her.
Should she cook what she wanted?
Or what wouldn’t be met with complaints?
She scrolled through recipes,
then settled for something familiar.
Stirring with one hand,
checking her phone with the other.
Thinking about all the things she wasn’t doing,
while doing this one thing,
without much feeling.
She told herself she wasn’t missing out.
But she was.
On something.
Maybe everything.
It was hard to say.
She wrote the perfect reply,
to that message from last month.
But didn’t send it.
Now it felt too late.
So she just reread it,
and replied in her head,
again.
In the lift,
she thought about saying “Hi.”
On the metro,
she wanted to ask if she could sit.
But she didn’t.
And sometimes, on busy roads,
when a bike came too close,
she braced herself,
not for the impact,
but for the blame.
Because if anything happened,
they’d just say,
“Obviously, a woman was driving.”
Not her fault.
Still, somehow, hers.
Because her mind was a crowded room,
where full conversations,
played on repeat.
Words polished.
Emotions practiced.
Truths unspoken.
And outside?
Just a nod.
A smile,
A “Maybe next time.”
Maybe one day,
the version of her that lived inside,
honest, unfiltered, unapologetic,
would step out.
Until then,
it was just her,
talking to herself,
beautifully unheard.