The Light we Carry

Kabir’s apartment wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Two rooms, a balcony, and a kitchen with exactly one window that let in the evening light like it was reluctant to be there. He’d lived here for almost three years now, and in that time, nothing much had changed. The walls stayed white, the couch stayed gray, and the quiet? That stayed too.

Most people assumed he liked living alone. That he preferred the calm, the space, the freedom to come and go as he pleased. And in some ways, maybe he did. But what they didn’t know was how loud the silence became after 9 p.m., when even the street dogs stopped barking and the city fell into that strange, in-between hush.

He worked a regular job in an IT firm. The kind where no one knew each other too well, but everyone remembered birthdays because of HR emails. He wasn’t unpopular—people liked him. He smiled when he spoke. Remembered details. He brought good cake to office parties and helped interns without acting like he was doing them a favor.

But no one knew who he called when his throat hurt. Or what songs he played on loop when the city felt too big. Or that some nights, he ate dinner standing by the sink because the silence of the dining table made the food taste dull.

There were no pictures on his fridge. No messages on the whiteboard. Just a small magnet that said “You’re doing fine.” He wasn’t sure if it was encouragement or sarcasm anymore.

Sometimes, he sat on his balcony with a mug of chai and watched the building opposite his. A family lived there—always loud, always in motion. Children arguing over cartoons, aunties gossiping, someone always cooking. The laughter carried across like it was trying to reach him. He never waved. But he always listened.

On Sundays, the ache grew stronger. That was the day his mother used to call. Even now, out of habit, he picked up his phone at 11 a.m., stared at the blank screen, then put it back down.

He hadn’t written in years.

There was a time, in college, when poetry came to him like breath. He’d stay up scribbling in cheap notebooks, sometimes entire pages about things he couldn’t say out loud. But somewhere along the way—between deadlines, rejections, and being the guy who always had it together—he stopped.

The notebooks still lived in a drawer, though. Tucked under old warranty bills and leftover Diwali envelopes. He never had the heart to throw them away.

That night, after a long day of pretending, Kabir lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His fan made a soft clicking sound every time it turned. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like something counting his silence.

He got up.

Opened the drawer.

Took out a notebook he hadn’t touched in five years. The cover was frayed at the edges. Pages yellowing. He flipped through them slowly, surprised by the softness of his own words. Surprised by the boy who once believed writing could save him.

He turned to a fresh page.

And for the first time in years, he picked up a pen.

His hand hesitated.

Then he wrote:

“Some nights, the loneliness sits beside me like an old friend—uninvited, familiar, and too patient to leave.”

He didn’t know why he wrote it. Or what he would do with it. But something inside him stirred.

He tore the page out. Held it for a while. Then set it down on the table beside the half-finished cup of chai. The night, as always, said nothing.

But for the first time in a long time, Kabir didn’t feel completely empty.

Just... almost.