SHREEKANT PANDEY & AVANTIKA BANSAL
(This story explores the quiet but profound impact of a simple midnight text on a girl weighed down by silence and emotional exhaustion. It reveals how healing doesn’t always begin with grand gestures, but often with something far smaller — the gentle presence of a message that asks, “Are you okay?”)
Every day, she slept on time. And as the clock struck 12:00 AM, her phone lit up with a message:
“Are you okay?”
The message arrived quietly — no urgency, no expectation. But something about those three words felt like a soft hand on a tired heart. She felt an instant, quiet relief — the kind that whispers, “You’re not alone.” Someone out there cared. Someone thought of her. Someone wanted to know if she was still holding on.
Those three words were not “i love you,” but they felt deeper. For a moment, the weight on her chest eased — not because everything was suddenly fine, but because someone, somewhere, had noticed the silence within her soul.
Suddenly, she saw a light in her heart, the light that had been taken away by someone—the light she never wanted again in her life. And yet, this time, something inside her dared to believe. She thought to give it a chance once again, and once more, she wanted to go all in.
That “are you okay?” had somehow saved her soul from going deep into the darkness from which she could not return. She didn’t reply immediately. She just stared at the message, letting the warmth melt into the cold corners of her heart.
Not all saviours arrive with grand gestures — some come quietly, in midnight texts, asking simple questions with infinite depth.
And in that quiet moment, she whispered to herself, “Maybe healing begins like this… with being seen.
That night, she slept with the thought of healing herself. The next morning was not as usual for her. She looked at the message once again, and now she wanted the best for herself, for her soul- not just survival, but something better.
She decided to give herself another chance. She smiled at herself, looking in the mirror, wanting to achieve more. The relief she felt last night was a warm hug. She knew that even in silence, someone would notice her. Someone would ask.
That message didn’t just check on her; it reminded her that she mattered.
It wasn’t about the sender alone — it was about the spark that reignited.
The girl who had forgotten how to choose herself was now learning to bloom again, slowly but surely.
She wasn’t waiting to be rescued anymore; she was learning to rise, gently, from within.
And maybe, just maybe, the world wasn’t such a lonely place after all.
She stepped out of her home, living the moment that she had felt after so long.
The sunlight made her face glow. Today was a normal day, but there was something special in it.
Her heart was feeling light. She felt what was to be seen. Maybe she was waiting for those words. Those words worked like magic on her. So as the day went by, she saw little things which she was not able to see. The surroundings felt more beautiful, more relaxing, and more comforting.
The person who sent the text was in front of her, like Superman wearing a cape, and saved her life when she was falling from the roof. Her hands didn’t get cold. Instead, she felt a sense of comfort in her soul in body. He wasn’t there in person. No footsteps, no warm hugs. Just a message.
But it echoed louder than any voice in the room, wrapping itself around her like a quiet lullaby.
And this time, she smiled — not at her screen, but at her reflection.
Because something had shifted. The ache in her chest no longer screamed for attention.
The walls she had built so high began to soften — not crumble, but allow a gentle breeze in.
She didn’t need a fairytale.
She needed presence — even the kind that travels through screens and silence — and someone who noticed the tremble in her soul.
She walked through her day feeling lighter, her steps no longer burdened by invisible weights.
And when the wind passed by in the evening, she closed her eyes, feeling it like a whisper from afar.
“Are you okay?” still echoed within her — not as a question now, but as an anchor.
He didn’t rescue her.
He reminded her that she still mattered — that someone, somewhere, could feel her hurt without her ever saying a word.
That night, before sleeping, she whispered back to the emptiness of her room:
“I think I will be.”
And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.
Because sometimes, all it takes to begin again… is being asked the right question.
(The authors are PhD scholars, Birla Institute of Technology Mesra, Ranchi)
