I unlock the door to my hostel room, and the familiar creak welcomes me. Inside, everything is just the way I left it— a half-empty packet of biscuits on the table, my unmade bed, and the fan making its constant humming noise.

Silence.

Back home, this was when my mom would call me for tea. My little sister would burst into my room, rambling about something I didn’t care about but always listened to anyway. Here? It’s just me.

I throw my bag onto the chair and collapse onto the bed. My phone buzzes. A message from Raj.

“Dinner?”

For a moment, I consider saying no. I’m not really hungry. Or maybe I just don’t feel like moving. This happens a lot—this loneliness creeping in like a slow, invisible fog.

But I know how it works now. I know if I don’t get up, the silence will get louder.

So, I text back. “Coming in 5.”

I splash water on my face, change my t-shirt, and step out. The corridor is alive—guys laughing, someone playing a song on their speaker, the smell of instant noodles in the air. It’s not home, but it’s something.

I join Raj at the mess. We joke about our assignments, complain about the food, and laugh at things that aren’t even funny.

And just like that, the silence loses.