The pigeon was gone by morning, leaving behind nothing but a single feather and a strangely poetic bird poop mark on the window glass. Aarya looked at it and sighed.
"Even the birds leave stains when they crash into my life," she muttered, wiping the window with the edge of her old dupatta.
The house was quieter than usual. That was always suspicious. Her mother had gone to visit a relative, her father had left early for work, and the TV hadn't been turned on since last night. For once, there were no shouted arguments or passive-aggressive humming echoing through the walls.
It should've felt peaceful. It didn't. It felt like a silence waiting to explode.
Aarya sat down at her desk, opened her notebook, and reread the sentence she'd scribbled the night before:
"I don't want to be invisible anymore."
Something about it made her uncomfortable. Not because it wasn't true—because it was too true. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to be seen or just not be ignored. There was a difference.
She flipped the page and wrote the title: "The List of Somedays."
She'd seen a video online where someone said, "If you want something, write it down. Turn it into a real thing."
So, she did.
Someday, I will win something that isn't just a participation certificate.
Someday, I will be the first name people think of when they say, "Who's the best?"
Someday, I will have a room of my own. A door that locks. A ceiling that doesn't leak.
Someday, I'll fall in love with someone who doesn't make me feel small.
Someday, I'll go to sleep without replaying every stupid thing I said that day.
Someday, I'll stop apologizing for existing.
Someday, I'll wear red lipstick in public without panicking.
Someday, I'll travel somewhere just because I want to. Alone.
Someday, I'll be free.
She stopped at nine. Something about the number felt unfinished—but not incomplete.
She stared at the list for a long time. She didn't cry. She didn't smile. She just stared, until her vision blurred slightly, and the words floated.
Then, her phone buzzed.
WhatsApp (12 unread messages)
The class group. Chaos, as usual.
Priyanka Sharma: Bro who did the Physics practical file?? Ma'am's gonna kill us
Aayush: No clue bro lol we're all dead
Shruti: I think Aarya always does hers, she's like the Hermione of our batch
Aarya (typing… then deleting)
Aarya (typing again… deleting again)
Finally, she just replied:
Aarya: I can send pics of mine if that helps.
A flood of heart emojis followed.
She hated this. She hated how she was useful but not included. Needed but not known. Like a vending machine—insert question, receive answer.
She sent the pictures, muted the group, and leaned back in her chair. Her head tilted to the side, resting against the cracked wooden backrest.
That's when the second surprise of the day hit her.
"AARYAAA!"
Her neighbor's daughter, Momo (age: 8, profession: chaos creator), burst into the room without knocking. She wore mismatched socks and had two pigtails that defied gravity.
"Your mom's not home na?" Momo asked, already making herself comfortable on the bed.
"No. Why?"
"I spilled Fevicol on my science project and Maa said, 'Go to Aarya Didi, she's good at fixing things.' So I came."
Aarya stared at the child. "Your mom thinks I'm good at fixing things?"
"Yes. You fixed my paper rocket last time, remember? Also, you always know what to write in school essays. And also—can I have Parle-G?"
Without waiting for a reply, Momo marched to the shelf and grabbed a biscuit packet.
"Do you ever knock?" Aarya asked, dryly amused.
"Nope," Momo replied, munching loudly. "Knocking is for people with doors that lock."
Aarya laughed—actually laughed—for the first time that week.
They sat there, gluing together soggy thermocol pieces while Momo told her a story about how she saw a crow steal a samosa from a guy on a bike.
"You think crows are smarter than pigeons?" Momo asked.
"Pigeons can't even land properly," Aarya replied, thinking of the rebellious one from last night.
Momo nodded seriously. "Yeah, pigeons are just air potatoes."
The phrase hit Aarya like a burst of sunlight through clouds.
Air potatoes.
That's exactly what her life felt like sometimes. Floating around, awkward, bumping into windows.
But maybe that's okay.
Maybe even air potatoes can fly. They just need better aim.
After Momo left (without saying thank you, of course), Aarya looked back at her "Someday List."
She added a tenth line:
Someday, I'll help someone else believe in their Someday.
She smiled.
The next day, she walked past a community centre on her way home and saw a crowd gathered outside. A notice was pinned on the wall: Summer Youth Campaign—Volunteers Needed. She was about to walk away when a line on the poster caught her eye: "Help younger students with their studies, their stories, their struggles."
She stood frozen. Stories.
That word pulsed in her head like a heartbeat. Aarya remembered how Momo had looked at her, so sure she could fix things, and how she had loved writing Momo's essay last year for a storytelling competition.
Maybe it wasn't just about writing stories. Maybe it was about helping others tell theirs. Maybe that was what she wanted to do—help people make sense of their chaos with words.
A flicker of something warm spread through her chest.
She entered the centre.
Inside, the room smelled like dust and ambition. A tall boy with an amused expression stood behind a foldable table stacked with pamphlets. He looked about her age, but there was something oddly composed about him—like he was used to being the one people listened to.
"Here to volunteer or just looking for free AC?" he asked, handing her a form.
Aarya raised a brow. "What if I said both?"
He grinned. "Then you've passed the vibe check."
He had the kind of smile that didn't ask for attention but effortlessly got it.
"I'm Sid," he said, offering a slightly exaggerated bow. "I do admin, snacks, and unwanted sarcasm."
"Aarya," she replied. "I do notebooks, biscuits, and occasional social anxiety."
Sid laughed, and she found herself smiling in a way she hadn't around strangers before.
He showed her around, introducing her to a few other volunteers. There was an energy to the place—a sort of messy, hopeful chaos. It made her nervous. And excited.
Sid paused near a whiteboard that read: "Every person is a story. Some just need a pen."
"You like writing?" he asked, noticing her gaze linger.
She hesitated. "Yeah. But I don't know if I'm good at it."
"You don't have to be good. You just have to be brave enough to begin."
Aarya looked at him. Noticed how he wasn't trying to sound wise. He just was.
"Is that your quote?" she asked.
"Nope. Stole it from the internet. But I say it like it's mine, so it feels original."
She laughed.
Maybe today wasn't perfect. Maybe she wasn't either.
But she had a list. A laugh. A possible beginning.
And a name to remember: Sid.
It was a start.