Beyond Scribbles

As an ardent reader, Swapna found the library to be a second home. Her sister used to joke that she would’ve moved there permanently if the staff had allowed it.

It was true. Swapna could never resist a book—or the place that held them. That’s why she majored in Library and Information Science, hoping to spend her life among the books.

Swapna first crossed paths with Meera, an author of two short stories, at a local library they both frequented. It was Meera’s dream to see her books on the library shelves. When a passing conversation revealed Meera’s intent, Swapna offered to help to get her work noticed. 

Soon after, Meera began visiting the library where Swapna worked. In those quiet hours among the shelves, their acquaintance deepened into a steady friendship. Though Swapna had heard of Meera’s books, she only began reading them after meeting the woman behind the words.

Swapna helped Meera bring more attention to her books—something Meera seemed to crave more than she let on. Over time, Swapna felt that Meera could write even better if she weren’t so fixated on becoming popular—something she couldn’t bring herself to say.

Meera made it a habit to bring her new drafts for Swapna’s perusal. She seemed to value her friend’s opinion, as Swapna had a keen sense of how a story should progress from a reader’s point of view.

Inspired by Swapna’s insights, Meera often encouraged her to write a story of her own. But each time the topic of her own writing came up, Swapna eluded it completely.

Until one afternoon when Swapna handed Meera a story she had been working on. She called it her “first draft”—a treasured companion no one else had seen. But the moment Meera’s eyes fell on it, she knew it was anything but a first draft.

It was a carefully reworked and edited piece, polished a hundred times over—a well-loved bundle of ink and paper.

The story that lived within those pages was spectacular, to say the least. Meera felt a sharp tinge of envy she quickly masked with a smile. She said she would take it home and finish reading it before offering her unfiltered feedback.

Swapna was delighted that a published author like Meera was willing to give her manuscript such dedicated attention.

That night, Meera tried tweaking her latest story, inspired by Swapna’s work. But she couldn’t come close to doing it justice. Swapna’s writing was unique and mesmerizing—the kind that left even a writer like Meera speechless.

The next day, Swapna waited for Meera at the library. When Meera hadn’t arrived by late afternoon, she grew concerned and texted to check on her. An hour or so went by when Meera replied that she wasn’t feeling well and would return the manuscript the next day.

Swapna felt a pang of guilt. In her eagerness for feedback, she hadn’t considered that Meera might be unwell. She scolded herself for being selfish, forgetting that her curiosity was natural, especially since this was the first time anyone other than herself had read her story.

The next day, as promised, Meera returned the manuscript with a polite, brief compliment. Though Swapna felt a quiet disappointment at the generic feedback, she didn’t show it. Meera must still be recovering, she reasoned.

In the days that followed, Meera stopped coming to the library altogether, leaving Swapna wondering what had happened. Their eight-month-long friendship seemed to falter without explanation.

A month later, Swapna came across an announcement on Meera’s Instagram page—her upcoming novel release.

She wondered why Meera hadn’t mentioned it before. Perhaps that was why she had stopped visiting the library, Swapna thought. She was consumed by the new project.

She sent a congratulatory message asking about the theme. Days later, Meera replied with a simple “Thanks.” Nothing more.

Something felt off. Everything had shifted after Meera read her story. Had she written something offensive? Swapna wondered.

She decided to read the story again—this time through Meera’s eyes.

The next day, after convincing herself there was nothing objectionable, she texted Meera again, asking if something was wrong. This time, there was no reply.

Then, everything became clear.

The book was released. Swapna bought a copy on the very first day and finished reading it during her lunch break.

As she turned the pages, Meera’s silence echoed louder than ever. It was surreal as Swapna’s manuscript stared at her from Meera’s book.

The one she had rewritten a hundred times. The one she had perfected with care. The one she had trusted her friend to read.

Meera had loved it enough to take it—claim it—and publish it as her own.

Swapna turned the final page and closed the book with steady hands.

For a moment, she sat there, letting the truth settle in.

It was her story. There was no doubt about it.

Every line, every pause, every breath between words—it all belonged to her.

Meera had taken the pages, but she couldn’t take the voice that wrote them.

Swapna reached into her bag and pulled out her original manuscript, its edges worn from being held, revised, and loved.

This was where it began. Not in print. Not in recognition.

But in her.

She opened to the first page and paused, her fingers resting lightly on the words she once thought were complete.

Then she picked up a pen.

And began again.

© Vinitha Dileep

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This piece is written in response to the two hundredth and ninety-fifth edition of Fiction Monday inspired by the word prompt – INTENT hosted by yours truly. Do join in if you have a tale to tell.

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