#june2nd

From Pen-Down Strikes to Digital Agitation: The Journalist’s Role in the Telangana Struggle

You handed me the box, and i held on to it for a moment, hoping my feet would move toward the door. But i wanted you to say something to make everything hurt less. You could have said anything and i would have been grateful. The silence hung between us, like a heart slowly breaking. I reached for the door, pulled it open, one foot in the hallway, the other in a home that wasn't ours anymore. It was strange, what you said next, when you turned to me and asked. "You haven't have left anything behind, have you?" I had laughed, a sad little laugh that traveled from me to you, but only because i knew we were both remembering the same thing. All the times i had left my shoes or coat or wallet at your place and you would call me to let me know. I was constantly returning to collect things. I never told you that i was always leaving things behind so i could return the next day, just to see you. But there wouldn't be a next day anymore. I looked at you one last time, right before stepping through a world without you, and i hoped in time we would look back with fond memories. But now i realize how sad the last thing you had said to me was. After i closed the door, i was leaving something behind again. It was you.