“First, Ididget through,” he says. “And second, which you’d better not forget, I don’t feed you lies. When I say you’re the best, I mean it. Now go open the damn mail and confirm that I have a partner in crime when I step into college.”
I can’t help but laugh, my nerves easing just a little. The thought of us, side by side, chasing the same dream, feels both thrilling and comforting all at once. Still, a fraction of my insecurity slips through.
“What if I don’t? You’ll just leave me behind?” I ask, half-teasing, half-terrified at the thought of not getting the admission.
“Never,” he says immediately. “We’ve been a team since first grade. You really think I’d start now, without you?”
My throat tightens a little. It’s true. Samarth and I have really been together forever. Childhood neighbours, schoolmates, and partners in every ridiculous competition that ever existed. He even sat with me when I cried over my first failed school article and listened patiently to my late-night rants about journalism ethics. Ours is the kind of friendship where words aren’t always necessary, because somehow, you just know.
“I know you won’t,” I whisper, sitting up again. “Okay… stay on the call. I’m opening it.”
“Finally!”
I take a deep breath and click on the mail. The soft sound feels far too small for how loudly my heart is beating.
“Moment of truth,” I mutter, my eyes scanning the mail. For a second, all the words blur together. And then, I see it: ‘We are pleased to inform you, Miss Meera Sinha…’
“OH MY GOD!”
“Meera?”
“I GOT IN!” I squeal, leaping off the bed and bouncing with joy. “I actually got in!”
“I knew it!” he shouts on the other end. “I freaking knew it!”
“Yes! I got the email confirmation. It’s official!”
“I’m coming over. We’re celebrating this!”
I blink. “Now?”
“Yes,now! You think I’m going to let my best friend have her dream-come-true moment alone?”
I laugh, half-crying, half-grinning like an idiot. “Samarth, it’s literally nine in the morning.”
“So what? I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Get ready.”
The call ends before I can argue, leaving me staring at my phone, still smiling. Shaking my head, I sit down on the edge of my bed and look back at the acceptance letter. It feels unreal, like one of those dreams where everything lines up perfectly into place, and you’re terrified that waking up will ruin it.
I trace the college logo with my fingertip and think back to all the nights I stayed up, poring over news reports, analysing interviews, pretending I was already out there in the field.
Pulling in a breath, I tear my eyes away from the laptop and look around my room—the proof of how stubbornly I’ve held on to this dream. The soft cream-beige walls are lined with framed photos and posters of journalists I admire. A wooden study desk sits in the corner, its surface cluttered with half-read books, notes, and papers. Above it, shelves overflow with trophies from school competitions. Opposite it, a matching dresser holds a small lamp that casts a warm circle of light over carefully arranged keepsakes and mementoes.
I even recall the times people said journalism was too risky, too unstable, too… unfeminine. But none of it ever mattered, because being a voice that could reach people mattered the most.
Just then, my phone buzzes again.
Samarth:On my way. Don’t you dare say you still need time to get dressed.
I grin, typing back quickly.
Me:I am ready.
I lie and don’t tell him I’m still in my pyjamas. I don’t need to hear him tease me about being slower than a tortoise when it comes to getting ready. Instead, I move to my wardrobe, pull on a pair of jeans and a pullover sweatshirt, and brush my hair into a quick ponytail.
Once I’m dressed, I glance back at my laptop one last time.
“You’re really going to be a journalist,” I whisper to myself. “And not just any journalist, but the very best there is.
