Things Left Unsaid

The monsoon was withdrawing from Koraput, leaving behind damp winds and drifting clouds heavy with unspent rain. From the balcony of the Hill Top Special Circuit House, I watched the mist veil the green hills like a slow farewell. The Chief Minister’s tour had concluded, and the once-buzzing residence had turned hollow. Officials had packed, servants had vanished, and silence had returned to the rooms. I too had packed most of my belongings, ready to return to Bhubaneswar. But something inside me—something quiet and stubborn—refused to let go.

Stay just one more night.
A soft voice within me whispered.

This wasn’t just a trip. It was a return to where everything began—eight years ago. The Central University of Odisha, nestled in these hills, had been the beginning of my real, independent life. Two years of youth, joy, laughter, and silent dreams. Rides through misty roads, the fragrance of wet soil after the rain, and the chill of untouched waterfalls—this place wasn’t just geography, it was memory.

My phone rang, breaking my trance.
"Hello… Yeahhhh, Swagat… yes, I'm here tonight. All finished. Just waiting to go there."

Swagat—an old friend, perhaps the only one who still belonged to the same Koraput that I remembered.

Did I have a plan? Not really. I just wanted to feel Koraput breathe again.

But beneath the nostalgia, there was a heavier reason—a whisper from a year ago. A story I had left unfinished.


Not for any particular reason I could explain. Maybe just one more night in Koraput. One more breeze. One more slow evening where the sky wraps itself around the hills like an old shawl.

Eight years ago, I had first come here. A fresh post-graduate student at the Central University of Odisha. It was the beginning of everything — independence, ambition, solitude, joy. Days filled with walks in the woods, waterfalls after class, rented bikes along foggy roads, laughter with friends, tea at roadside stalls. It had been two years of a life that felt both cinematic and real. A life I didn’t know I would miss this much.

Swagat arrived soon, his bike’s hum echoing off the hills. I had already seen him from the balcony, his silhouette familiar, comforting. I waved as he parked. The hug that followed wasn’t just reunion—it was a bridge of three lost years.

“Come out for a ride?”

“I’m packed.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I smiled.

His bike’s engine echoed up the hillside, breaking the hush of the evening. 

“Where do you want to go?” he asked, as casually as if no time had passed.

I shrugged. “Just ride. Let the roads decide.”

We started slow. Past familiar bends and foggy corners. Every turn carried echoes. My eyes traced the skyline, the pines, the rain-washed rocks. Koraput was the same, only I had changed. Or maybe, not entirely.

We reached Similiguda before I even realised we were headed that way.

The town hadn’t changed much. Maybe a few new shops, newer paint, but the heart of it was the same. Alive in a quiet, observant way. I noticed people coming out for evening walks, shopping for groceries, getting snacks from roadside vendors.

We stopped near CNC Restaurant. Swagat went in for samosas. I waited outside, watching the slow dance of life around me. There was a strange restlessness in my chest, like something was missing, like I was remembering something I wasn’t supposed to.

I crossed the road to glance at Reliance Fresh. Familiar faces, unfamiliar faces. My eyes scanned instinctively.

For what? I didn’t know.

We didn’t stay long. The town was getting busier, and I wanted quiet again.

“Let’s take Nandapur Road,” I said.

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Just a short ride. Away from all this noise.”

He nodded, and we rode.

The traffic thinned. The hills returned. Trees leaned over the road like old friends. The sun had dipped by now, casting a golden-blue haze over everything.

Eight kilometres down, I asked him to stop. I got down. Walked a few steps to the edge of the road. Silence stretched. The valley below was slowly darkening. Lights flickered in the distance. Maybe from homes. Maybe from dreams.

I felt something ache deep inside me. A memory not of the place—but of someone in it.

Not from eight years ago.

From just a year back.

It hadn’t started as anything. A brief conversation. Then two. Then... evenings. Shared coffees. Unshared silences. She lived here, worked here. A gentle soul with eyes that always seemed to be searching the horizon. I didn’t know when I began imagining a life that included her. I just know that I did.

We weren’t lovers. We never even called it anything.

But we were something.

And then we were not.

No final words. Just space that never closed again.

“Let’s go back,” I said finally.

We turned the bike around. The wind had picked up now, sharper, colder. The hills looked darker. My mind heavier.

Halfway to Koraput, we passed an old tea shop — or where it used to be.

It was now a polished café, advertising Koraput Coffee.

Swagat smiled. “Our old adda. Want to stop?”

“Yeah. One last time.”

We parked and ordered two cups. The aroma wrapped around us like old conversations. I took a sip—too hot. My tongue burned. I winced.

And that’s when I saw her.

Across the road, coming down the steps of a shopping complex, a carry bag in one hand. Her walk, her posture—unchanged.

My heart didn’t pound. It paused.

She hadn’t seen me yet. But then she did.

Our eyes met.

The same stillness. The same silence. No anger. No regret. Just a thousand thoughts in five seconds of eye contact.

She stopped. I stood still.

Neither of us moved.

I could’ve crossed the road. Could’ve called her name. Could’ve smiled. Could’ve asked the question I’d kept buried for a year.

“Why couldn’t we?”

But I didn’t.

I turned to Swagat.

“Let’s go.”

He didn’t ask why.

As we rode away, I looked back once.

She was still there.

Frozen in place. Watching. Eyes full of something I couldn’t name.

Maybe she wanted to say something.

Maybe I did too.

But the distance grew.

And with it, the silence.

Back on the road to Koraput, Swagat asked, “What just happened?”

I didn’t answer.

I just looked ahead and said,

“Some questions need not be answered.”