For The Dreamers Who Waited

By Vusurumarthi. Akshaya Srija

Summary:

A woman in her thirties, disconnected from the dreams of her youth, unexpectedly hears her teenage voice on a radio broadcast. Reunited with her best friend and inspired to create again, she rediscovers the courage to pursue her long-suppressed passions, proving it’s never too late to listen to the dreams you once recorded.

Author’s Note :

For the Dreamers Who Waited is a story about the quiet persistence of hope and the small, meaningful acts that bring us back to ourselves. It reflects the idea that creativity and dreams don’t expire — they may just wait for the right moment. This story is a tribute to anyone who once recorded their aspirations, set them aside, and later found the courage to pick them up again.

In a quiet apartment tucked away in a corner of Hyderabad, Shreya, a woman in her thirties, sat at the edge of her bed, sipping tea that had long gone cold. She wasn’t waiting for anything — not a call, not a miracle. But she was tired — tired of holding herself together in a world that never seemed to hold her back.

And then…A voice from the past crackled through her radio.

That evening, as she twisted the dial to drown the silence in her room, the radio caught something unusual.

“You know what I think?” a soft, girlish voice said, followed by a giggle.“I think we’ll change the world. One story at a time.”

A pause. Another voice chimed in, full of laughter and warmth.“Promise me we’ll never stop dreaming… even if we don’t meet again.”

Shreya froze.She knew that voice.It was hers.

Her teenage self — laughing, dreaming — sitting in a small room years ago with her best friend Sharanya, recording voice notes on an old Walkman, pretending they were on the radio. They had made tapes of silly stories, fake interviews, even love advice — as if someone was listening.

But those tapes were never aired.Until now.

The next morning, Shreya called the radio station, her voice low and uncertain.“I… I heard something last night. A broadcast. It was me. And my friend. From years ago.”

There was a moment of silence before a warm voice replied,“Oh! That must be from our ‘Lost Voices’ series. We’ve been airing old, donated tapes. They were found in the archives by the station’s owner — a man named Raghav.”

Shreya’s heart skipped. Raghav. That was Sharanya’s husband.She whispered, “Is Sharanya there?”“Yes,” came the reply, “Would you like to come in?”

They met under the soft yellow lights of the studio — two women shaped by time, by wounds they no longer needed to explain.

Sharanya had lived through her own storms: an early marriage, moving cities, raising a daughter while helping Raghav run the station. They hadn’t lost touch because they wanted to. Life had simply scattered them.

They laughed listening to their old tapes. They cringed at their dramatic advice. They cried, too.

“I never thought those dreams mattered,” Shreya said softly.Sharanya smiled, squeezing her hand. “But they still found their way back to you.”

After that meeting, Shreya couldn’t ignore the quiet pull inside her anymore. She began sketching again — something she hadn’t done in years. Her art had always been hidden, folded under clothes in a drawer. Her family had never understood; to them, art was a distraction, not a path.

“You think dreams expire?” she asked Sharanya one afternoon.“No,” Sharanya said. “They just go underground for a while.”

Inspired, Shreya began designing posters for Lost Voices. Then came cover art, then digital sketches for their social media. She wasn’t a trained artist — but she had heart. And that was louder than any résumé.

Her family didn’t understand at first. Her husband, Arvind, had watched her paint late into the night but never said much. Others mocked her for “starting over” at her age. But Shreya kept going. Slowly. Quietly.

She sold her first sketch online.She voiced a short story for a podcast.She designed a poster that went viral.

No speeches. No shouting. Just quiet consistency.

One evening, as Arvind sat at the dining table reading the newspaper, Shreya’s voice came through the living room radio — narrating a story for a youth program on dreams.

He looked up, surprised. The voice was calm, confident, familiar. His eyes softened. When she joined him at the table, he simply said, “You sounded beautiful,” before serving her an extra spoonful of curry — a silent pride that said more than words could.

Weeks later, she stood on her balcony, sunlight spilling across her face. Her hair was damp, the tea warm in her hands, and beside her, the radio played softly.

She wasn’t famous.She wasn’t perfect.But she was free.

Free in the way only someone who finally returns to themselves can be.

And somewhere on air, a new episode of Lost Voices began —

“This one’s for the girls who once recorded dreams on cassettes… and finally listened back.”

By Vusurumarthi. Akshaya Srija