I Think I Still Know the Way Back

from the version of me who still remembers your handwriting

There’s a WhatsApp message I haven’t replied to. It’s not dramatic. Not emotional. Not even important, if you were to look at it out of context; which, I suppose, is the only way anyone else would. It just says, “do you remember that pani puri place near college?”

And I do. I remember it in the way I remember things that don’t exist in photographs; viscerally, unevenly, like an echo that’s decided what to keep. I remember the cracked mirror behind the cart, where we checked our hair like it was a kind of ritual. I remember the paani, sharp enough to make your nose run, the stall uncle’s stained fingernails, the smell of wet newspaper and frying oil. I remember the fifth puri we always saved for last; because the last one felt ceremonial, like a closing scene. I remember how we laughed then, freely, thoughtlessly. I remember how Nikyta wiped her mouth with her sleeve. How her voice cracked when she was excited. I remember more than I should.

And I haven’t replied.

I don’t know why. Or rather, I do; but the reasons are too quiet to explain. At first it was timing, then hesitation, then time itself. And now it feels like the silence is part of the memory. Like replying would force me to step out of that version of myself and name something that worked better when it was left unnamed. I keep thinking I’ll write back, something simple, something that keeps the moment intact “of course I remember.” But it never feels right. It never feels like enough. And the longer I wait, the more the waiting becomes its own language. A way of saying, yes, I remember, without having to break the spell.

Meanwhile, I am by all appearances; extremely online. I reply to memes. I react to stories. I send “this reminded me of you” to people I barely know anymore, hoping it lands the way I want it to: as care, not clutter. I leave voice notes that spiral around what I actually mean, stringing together punchlines and disclaimers until the emotion slips away. I’m fluent in gestures, quick with warmth, sharp with timing but I rarely stay. I rarely say the thing. I’ve built a version of myself who is reachable but never quite present. Available, but never fully seen.

There are other selves too, of course. One for Instagram; curated, but pretending not to be. One for WhatsApp; less performative, but cautious. One for email, slow, scattered, too many drafts, never quite the right words. And then there’s LinkedIn. Or rather, there isn’t. I open it occasionally, mostly by mistake. I scroll through people announcing things; titles, transitions, wins I don’t have names for and feel like I’ve wandered into a conference I didn’t register for. Everyone speaks with certainty. Every sentence ends with a call to action or a headline. And me? I read a few lines, feel a little unqualified, a little detached, a little smug, a little lost. Then I close the tab. I don’t have a version of myself who belongs there. Not because I don’t think I’m doing something meaningful. But because I don’t know how to package it in that language. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d want to.

There used to be the dating profile version too; the one who sounds spontaneous but emotionally available, who says “looking for something real” like she hasn’t written and deleted that sentence four times in one sitting. She is breezy. She hikes. She reads. And there’s another version that lives entirely inside my Notes app, long paragraphs never sent, lists of things I almost said out loud, feelings too rough around the edges to be public. That version is all voice and no punctuation. She spirals, she edits, she tells the truth when no one’s asking. I think she’s the most accurate one. But she never leaves the draft.

I’ve been trying to remember the face of my first crush. It’s a small grief, that forgetting. His name started with A. Maybe Arnav. Maybe Aditya. I remember he wore a white tshirt under his plaid shirt and once lent me his compass in class, said “keep it” like it meant something. I remember the way he stood, the way he wrote his notes. But not his face. And I’ve looked for him, more than I care to admit. Typed his name into platforms I don’t even use anymore. Tried every variation. Nothing. No photos, no profiles. He’s not there. He might as well have been made up.

Which is maybe the part that gets to me most. That someone who mattered to me once not in a grand way, but in a real one could disappear so completely. That memory alone no longer feels like proof. That I’ve started to doubt what I know just because I can’t find evidence. It’s a strange kind of erosion not of feeling, but of faith. Faith that what we felt, when we felt it, was enough to outlast the forgetting.

Some days I think I remember too much. Other days, I think I’ve lost everything that ever made me. I scroll through old photos and see myself smiling at things I can’t recall. I read conversations I don’t remember having. I watch videos where I’m laughing, and I don’t recognise the voice. It’s like I’ve become a museum of partial exhibits memories half-labeled, timelines out of order, emotions stored in folders I can’t find when I need them.

And through all of it, Nikyta's message remains.

Two grey ticks. One question.

Some days I nearly reply. I type, “yeah, I remember,” and hover. I think about adding something more: the mirror, the sukha puri, the way our elbows used to touch on that tiny bench, but nothing feels quite right. Because what I want to say isn’t about the pani puri. It’s about the version of me who lived in that moment. Who didn’t think about presence or performance. Who wasn’t collecting memories like artifacts. Who didn’t need to record everything to believe it happened.

That’s what I miss. Not the boy, not the cart, not even the laughter. I miss being that certain about something so fleeting. I miss how easy it was to belong to myself without needing an audience.

I don’t reply.

Not yet.

But I think about it.

And maybe, for now, remembering is the only reply I know how to give.