Staring out from the window of an unknown city, in a land that feels foreign, whispers of the past still echo. The voices, their words, the promises—they linger like ghosts in the corners of my mind. I long to answer, yet the silence is heavy, locked inside. My heart, a stone, caught in my throat. How do I share this ache, over and over, with those who have already tired of its weight? I see us—once hand in hand, promising to meet every turn in life together. Those late-night walks, the unplanned escapes, the streets we dreamed of wandering. Now that you’re gone, where do I place these dreams? A hollow wraps around me, a shadow I cannot shake. I sit by the window, watching silhouettes rise and fall—some familiar, some strangers—drifting like smoke in the memory of you. They ask how I am, tell me to find joy in what remains, that there’s more to life than this. But I live in the life we imagined—alone. I’ve gained the world, but what is it worth? It was always you—my beginning, my end. Now, I walk those unknown streets, haunted by the shadows of what once was, knowing nothing will ever be the same. The air feels thicker, every step heavier, as if the past clings to my very skin. I search the faces of strangers, hoping for a glimpse of you in the crowd, a familiar echo in the noise. As they say- loving is short, but forgetting is long. I once believed love could fill every empty space, that time would heal every wound. But now I see—some voids grow with time, and some wounds never close. The weight of absence becomes part of you, and in chasing the past, I’ve forgotten how to live in the present. ©Gargi Banerjee

Gargi Banerjee

White It's 2 a.m., and once again, I'm here, writing in the soft, muted glow of my phone screen. I'm lost in a certain genre of music, one that I'll keep unnamed as if keeping it secret might somehow shield me from the thoughts that keep me up at night. The darkness outside mirrors the void within me, a void that has grown wider and more consuming with each passing day. It's as though every moment that goes by adds another layer of something I can’t quite put into words—a kind of void that keeps expanding inside me. They say time heals all wounds, but what if time is the wound itself, slowly etching away at me, carving out pieces of who I am until there's nothing recognizable left? Yet, despite it all, we carry on, don’t we? We stand tall because that’s what’s expected of us—we put on this façade of being unbreakable, hoping that if we pretend long enough, maybe, just maybe, it’ll become our reality. ©Gargi Banerjee

Gargi Banerjee

Staring out from the window of an unknown city, in a land that feels foreign, whispers of the past still echo. The voices, their words, the promises—they linger like ghosts in the corners of my mind. I long to answer, yet the silence is heavy, locked inside. My heart, a stone, caught in my throat. How do I share this ache, over and over, with those who have already tired of its weight? I see us—once hand in hand, promising to meet every turn in life together. Those late-night walks, the unplanned escapes, the streets we dreamed of wandering. Now that you’re gone, where do I place these dreams? A hollow wraps around me, a shadow I cannot shake. I sit by the window, watching silhouettes rise and fall—some familiar, some strangers—drifting like smoke in the memory of you. They ask how I am, tell me to find joy in what remains, that there’s more to life than this. But I live in the life we imagined—alone. I’ve gained the world, but what is it worth? It was always you—my beginning, my end. Now, I walk those unknown streets, haunted by the shadows of what once was, knowing nothing will ever be the same. The air feels thicker, every step heavier, as if the past clings to my very skin. I search the faces of strangers, hoping for a glimpse of you in the crowd, a familiar echo in the noise. As they say- loving is short, but forgetting is long. I once believed love could fill every empty space, that time would heal every wound. But now I see—some voids grow with time, and some wounds never close. The weight of absence becomes part of you, and in chasing the past, I’ve forgotten how to live in the present. ©Gargi Banerjee

Gargi Banerjee

White It's 2 a.m., and once again, I'm here, writing in the soft, muted glow of my phone screen. I'm lost in a certain genre of music, one that I'll keep unnamed as if keeping it secret might somehow shield me from the thoughts that keep me up at night. The darkness outside mirrors the void within me, a void that has grown wider and more consuming with each passing day. It's as though every moment that goes by adds another layer of something I can’t quite put into words—a kind of void that keeps expanding inside me. They say time heals all wounds, but what if time is the wound itself, slowly etching away at me, carving out pieces of who I am until there's nothing recognizable left? Yet, despite it all, we carry on, don’t we? We stand tall because that’s what’s expected of us—we put on this façade of being unbreakable, hoping that if we pretend long enough, maybe, just maybe, it’ll become our reality. ©Gargi Banerjee

Gargi Banerjee