There Are Craters in All of Our Chests
Or, sometimes we need another person to reflect ourselves back to us
During my recent trip to Sri Lanka (gosh, it’s been three weeks already since I came back), I found out something strange. Not strange like “a dog wearing glasses” strange, but stranger—like platonic relationships are real strange.
Like, real real. Not the vague sort-of-friendship you have with your coworker who knows your birthday but not your last name. I mean the kind of real that makes you sit on a rooftop at midnight and talk about the universe with someone who doesn’t want anything from you but your presence.
There’s no tension. No drama. Just this weird, beautiful connection. Like meeting a pen pal you didn’t know you were writing to. It made my chest, and somehow my whole self, feel lighter. And for a brief, shimmering moment, I was joyful in the way kids are joyful—before the world teaches them to flinch.
And here’s the part that’s hard to explain: I don’t know why it happened. There was no formula. No magic words. Just this sense that maybe some empty place in me had been quietly asking to be seen. And someone saw it. And they didn’t try to fix it. They just sat beside it.
It reminded me of 2014. I was doing my master’s at IIT Bombay, living on instant noodles and borrowed optimism. That year, I remember I met someone too. But more than that, I met this version of myself—ambitious, open-hearted, afraid but hopeful. I believed then, honestly, that the future was a place where good things happened.
And in Sri Lanka, 11 years later, that feeling came back. I remember waking up at 3 a.m. to get ready for a safari and feeling exactly what I felt in 2014—that strange, unearned joy. Like I’d temporarily borrowed someone else’s life—a brighter, easier one. It felt like flying. Not aeroplane-flying. Emotional flying. That rare, internal lift that makes you want to call your younger self and say, “I know exactly how you feel.”
Of course, it didn’t last. Nothing ever does. But it happened. And that’s the point, I think. It happened.
Maybe all of us walk around with these invisible shields—armour made of anxiety, politeness, distraction. Maybe those shields help us survive the everyday. But sometimes, in a strange land with no mirrors and no expectations, the armour slips. And what’s underneath is soft, and human, and aching to be seen. I think that’s one of the rare gifts of travel.
In Sri Lanka, I wasn’t trying to be anyone. I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t curating my personality like a playlist. I was just… there. And somehow, that was enough.
And sometimes, “it was” is enough to believe it can be again.
This clarity—this joy—I wouldn’t call it happiness, exactly. I’d call it remembering. Not the kind of remembering where you dig through old photos and try to recapture something. But the kind where you suddenly feel a part of yourself return, like a ghost you didn’t know you missed.
You know those rare days when time goes quiet? When you’re not thinking about tomorrow or yesterday, and suddenly life feels full, and rich, and good? That’s what I’m talking about. I wanted so badly to hold on to that feeling. It felt foolish. But what’s even more foolish is pretending it doesn’t matter.
Because it does.
It’s proof that our hearts still work. Proof we’re still alive.
I won’t call it nostalgia. It’s more like hunger. Hunger for presence. For awe. For being known without needing to be impressive.
In retrospect, I don’t think it was really about her. The person I met in Sri Lanka was more like a mirror. Sometimes we need another person to reflect our softest selves back to us, just so we remember they’re still there. I didn’t feel good because of her—I felt good because, for once, I was open enough to see myself through someone else’s eyes.
I think there are craters in all of our chests. And maybe they aren’t damage—maybe they’re just space. Space we’re meant to leave open, so something unexpected can find its way in. And sure, we’ll probably armour up again. That’s life. But we’ll remember that there’s still a version of us who can fly. Who can open up, laugh too hard, feel too much—and not apologise for it.
That version of me showed up in Sri Lanka.
And I hope he visits again. Maybe next time, he’ll even stay a little longer.
Sri Lanka left me with a lot—peeling skin, half-formed journal entries, and more solitude than I knew what to do with. Somewhere between the endless roads and the hush of unfamiliar nights, I started talking to myself in a way I hadn’t in years. In these posts, I’m trying to follow those threads—to see what they unravelled, and maybe, what they tied back together.