The Ticket That Was Never Used

The ticket was still there, pinned quietly to her corkboard.

Its corners had curled, and the ink had faded a little, but it remained—Flight 6E372 to Goa. July 4th, 2025. Window seat. A reminder of a summer that never happened.

Riya had been waiting for that trip for months. It wasn’t just about travel or beaches. It was about escape. It was about memories. And most of all, it was about Aman.

They’d been friends since school, drifting in and out of each other’s lives but always finding a way back. This summer was meant to be their celebration. A long-awaited adventure before adulthood closed in with deadlines, job offers, and relocations.

They had planned it all together—bookmarked cafés, late-night playlists, hotel bookings, even matching beach hats. Riya had printed the itinerary. Aman said he'd bring his guitar. They laughed about how they’d get sunburned and live off mango smoothies for a week.

Then came July 3rd. Just one day before their flight.

At 11:17 PM, her phone buzzed.

“I can’t go. Something’s come up. I’m really sorry.”

No explanation. No call. Just a short message that shattered weeks of excitement.

She stared at her screen for a long time. Re-read the words, trying to find meaning between the lines. But there was nothing—just silence after that. No “let’s talk,” no follow-up, just empty space.

Riya sat awake all night. Her suitcase was already packed. Her boarding pass was printed and clipped to the fridge. Her playlist was downloaded. But now, there was no trip.

Morning came. She canceled the cab. The hotel. She didn’t cancel the flight, though. She let the ticket expire. It felt like the only piece she could hold on to—proof that the plan existed. That something was supposed to happen.

Instead of walking on a beach, she sat on her balcony and watched the monsoon clouds rThe days that followed moved slowly. The years.

The days that followed moved slowly. The years.

The days that followed moved slowly. The years.

The days that followed moved slowly. The world outside seemed loud and busy, but Riya’s own world had gone quiet. She didn’t talk to Aman. Didn’t block him either. Just left things hanging, like the flight that never took off.

The ticket stayed pinned.

It wasn’t about being dramatic. It wasn’t even about holding a grudge. It was just… memory. Tangible. Honest. A reminder that sometimes, things fall apart without warning.

She didn’t try to make other plans. She spent the summer in her room, reading, cooking simple meals, journaling late into the night. Her friends invited her out, but she always made polite excuses. There was a heaviness in her chest she couldn’t explain.

But eventually, slowly, the silence began to feel like healing.

She started waking up earlier. Watered her plants. Took morning walks in the park with her headphones on. Life, as it does, moved forward.

By August, she found herself smiling again. Not because she forgot, but because she accepted.

Aman never gave a reason. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he didn’t know how. Whatever it was, she no longer needed closure. The unanswered questions stopped haunting her.

That ticket remained on the corkboard—not as a wound, but as a lesson.

Because not every trip gets taken. Not every story gets told the way we expect. Some summers come and go without ever starting. But even the broken plans leave behind pieces of who we are.

Now, whenever she looked at that old boarding pass, she didn’t feel pain. She felt something quieter. Something like growth.

The summer of 2025 was supposed to be unforgettable.

And in a strange way, it still was.