Title: The Notification
Chapter 1: Just Another Day
Riya sat at her desk, eyes drooping slightly as the soft hum of the ceiling fan competed with the dullness of her online marketing meeting. It was a Wednesday, and she had fallen into the usual slump. Wake up, check emails, attend meetings, half-listen to lectures, and scroll Instagram during lunch. Nothing new. Nothing thrilling. At twenty-four, she had expected life after college to be more... exciting.
Living with her parents in a modest apartment in Mumbai, Riya often felt suffocated by the predictability of her days. The city bustled with opportunity, but it never seemed to knock on her door. She worked as a junior digital marketer for a mid-level firm. Her boss, Ms. Patel, was as indifferent to innovation as she was obsessed with deadlines.
Around 2:47 PM, as she absentmindedly refreshed her Gmail on her phone for the 73rd time that day, she noticed an unread email titled: "Regarding Your Story Submission".
She frowned. “What story?”
Tapping on it, her eyes darted across the screen.
> Dear Riya Sharma,
Congratulations! Your short story, The Window, has been selected for publication in the June edition of Voices of the City.
We were deeply moved by the emotional depth and realism of your piece. As part of the feature, we’d also love to interview you for our next podcast episode.
Looking forward to hearing from you soon.
Regards, Tanya Khanna, Editor
She dropped her phone. Literally.
Chapter 2: A Window Remembered
Riya hadn't thought about The Window in months. It was a story she wrote during her final year of college — a short piece about a girl confined to a room during lockdown who finds solace in observing a mysterious boy through amisted glass window across the alley. She had written it in a haze of pandemic fatigue, pouring her isolation, yearning, and quiet observations into the prose. The story wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t have a twist ending or high stakes. But it had heart — the kind that came from lived experience. She had submitted it to a few places back then, mostly on a whim. Then life took over: graduation, job interviews, office work, and the slow erosion of dreams in Google Sheets.
She picked up her phone with trembling hands, rereading the email to make sure she hadn’t misinterpreted it. There it was — the confirmation, the recognition she never thought she'd receive.
For a moment, Riya just sat there. The drone of the fan, the background murmur of the still-ongoing Zoom call, and the gentle clink of utensils in the kitchen all seemed distant. Her heart thudded against her ribs like it wanted to punch its way out and celebrate on its own.
A smile cracked across her face, the kind that startled even herself.
She minimized her Zoom window, grateful her camera had been off. Then, without fully thinking it through, she opened the "Drafts" folder in her Gmail and searched for the original submission.
There it was — dated 11 months ago. A brief cover letter. A Word doc attachment. She clicked on it.
As the document loaded, memories flooded back. She remembered how she had written The Window in a single night after crying quietly on her rooftop. The boy in the story was fictional, but the loneliness was not. And now, someone had read that loneliness and found meaning in it.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She began drafting a reply:
> Dear Tanya,
Thank you so much for this incredible news. I'm truly honoured and excited! I'd love to be interviewed for the podcast — just let me know the details.
Warm regards,
Riya Sharma
She hit send before her nerves could protest.
Then she stood up and did something she hadn’t done in a while: she opened her bedroom window wide and took a deep breath. The city air was hot, sticky, and smelled faintly of roasted corn from the roadside vendor below — but it felt different. Lighter.
A ping.
Another email.
Subject: "Podcast Recording Schedule & Interview Questions"
It was real.
This was happening.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Riya didn’t feel like just another girl on just another day.
She felt… seen.
She stared at the new email for a moment, afraid to open it — as if doing so might shatter the magic that had just begun to gather in the room like light through morning mist. But curiosity, adrenaline, and something warmer — hope — nudged her forward.
She clicked.
> Hi Riya,
We're so thrilled to feature you on our podcast "Quiet Voices." Your piece, "The Window," really moved us. You captured something rare: stillness that speaks.
Attached below is a schedule of possible slots for next week’s recording, along with a few preliminary questions to help you prepare. Feel free to answer them your own way — there's no rush to be polished. We want you.
Warmly,
Tanya & the QV Team
She clicked the attachment. The questions were simple, open-ended — an invitation, not an interrogation.
What inspired you to write "The Window"?
How did the pandemic shape your creative voice?
What does recognition mean to you — if anything?
Do you still write?
What would you say to someone who’s quietly creating, unsure if it matters?
That last one made her pause.
She looked around her room — the half-made bed, the stack of self-help books she had stopped halfway through, the to-do list on the whiteboard with a smiley face drawn next to “update resume.” For the first time in a long time, none of it felt heavy.
She grabbed a pen and started scribbling her thoughts in her old journal — the same one she had abandoned months ago. Her answers weren’t perfect. But they were hers.
---
Later that evening, Riya sat at her desk, the gentle glow of her lamp casting a golden hue over the worn pages. She had chosen her time slot, replied with the answers, and even updated her bio on LinkedIn. It felt surreal — the way a part of her life she thought she’d buried had risen up like a wildflower through a crack in concrete.
Her mother knocked gently on the door.
“Dinner?”
“Two minutes, Ma,” Riya replied, still smiling.
As her mother walked away, Riya turned back to the screen. One last line in Tanya’s email stood out:
> "Also, we’d love it if you could send us a photo of your writing space or something that helped you stay grounded during those months. It doesn’t have to be aesthetic. Just honest."
Riya looked at the misted window across the alley — the same one she had stared at so many times during lockdown, wondering if life would ever feel vivid again.
She took her phone, walked to the window, and clicked a photo. It wasn’t special: just a frame of glass, a few drops of rain, and the faint silhouette of the building opposite.
But in that quiet image was everything she’d tried to say — and someone had finally heard it.
She attached it to the email reply.
And this time, when she hit send, her hands didn’t tremble.
A few days later, the podcast episode went live.
Riya’s phone buzzed non-stop — messages from old classmates, distant cousins, even a former English teacher who wrote, "I always knew you'd find your voice." Her story, “The Window,” had touched people in ways she never imagined. Strangers on Instagram shared quotes from it, tagged her, sent voice notes saying, “Thank you. I felt this too.”
She listened to the episode late at night, curled up in bed, earbuds in, her heart quietly thudding with every word. Hearing her own voice — nervous at first, then growing steadier — felt like listening to a version of herself she had almost forgotten existed.
And when Tanya ended the episode by saying, “Sometimes, the quietest stories echo the loudest,” Riya felt a lump in her throat.
She stared up at the ceiling, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. Not the heavy kind — the kind that come from release, from feeling known, from the overwhelming relief of being understood.
The next morning, she opened her laptop. Not for work. Not for job hunting.
She opened a new document.
Title: The Next Window.
And with a deep breath and a soft smile, Riya began to write again.
She was no longer invisible.
She was seen.
She was heard.
She was home.
React
