RICHA SHARMA
She wasn’t invisible.
But she wasn’t quite seen either.
People knew her name—Richa Sharma.
A quiet girl from a broken home.
A girl who always showed up on time,
spoke only when asked,
and disappeared into the crowd the moment class ended.
No one asked why she always wore long sleeves in summer.
No one asked why she carried old books filled with highlighted quotes.
No one asked why she never talked about her family.
But if they had watched closely,
They might’ve seen something—
a strange, unwavering light in her eyes.
Like someone waiting.
Longing.
Believing in something… or someone.
She didn’t believe in miracles.
But she believed in him.
A man she had never spoken to.
A man whose voice echoed in her heart louder than her own thoughts.
For three years, she had followed his journey.
A young social worker who gave water to strangers,
built shelters from scratch,
and smiled only when others did.
He didn’t know her.
But her world quietly revolved around him.
And now, destiny had brought her closer.
She wasn’t the timid teenager anymore.
She was about to begin her PhD in Social Work—
In the very organisation he had built.
But would he ever see her?
Would he ever realise that the girl standing across the room,
tucking her hair behind her ear,
Had she carried him in her heart like a prayer?
And when he finally does look at her—
Will he remember?
Not her face.
But the feeling…
The feeling of home.
