Tiny boxes.

Boxes of a family sitting together, sharing the first mango of the season.
Boxes of strangers sitting together, becoming friends over shared grief.

Boxes of kids planning a surprise birthday party for their mom.
Boxes of a mother wearing her favourite saree, to see her daughter after a year.

Boxes filled with laughter of an infant and her nanny.
Boxes filled with nervousness of a couple about to get married.

Boxes of dreams. Boxes of giving up dreams for someone else’s.
Boxes of hope and boxes of helplessness.
Boxes filled with humans planning their next prey.
Boxes filled with humans who help and heal.
Boxes that feel like home to some, prison to others.
Boxes that save us from rain. And unforeseeable pain.

Tiny boxes. Not-so-tiny stories.

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My story has no title.
It hardly even has a theme.

It has no start, no end. Just dreams and regrets gushing in and out like unforgiving tidal waves.

The ink is fading.
The corner of the pages are tearing.

I have lost too many pages.
I have scribbled so hurriedly in others, that I cannot even understand my own handwriting.

There are people there I no longer remember.

There are stories there that I can never forget.

My story has no title.
But if it did, it would probably be Stories.

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