One More Day

By Vusurumarthi. Akshaya Srija

2. One-Line Summary 

A young woman stands at the edge of her life, ready to end it all, until her unfinished story whispers for one more day—and that single choice changes everything.

3. Author’s Note 

This story is a reflection of silent battles — the moments when giving up feels easier than continuing. One More Day was born from the belief that stories can save us, even when we think nothing else can. I wrote it to remind anyone lost in the dark that hope sometimes arrives disguised as a single unfinished sentence.

The rope shook in her trembling hands.

She stood on a stool, sweat sliding down her forehead, breath shallow like a fading whisper. Her fingers tried to tie a knot to the ceiling fan — not just any knot, but the final one. Her hands kept slipping, almost begging her to stop. But her mind was steady in its surrender.

She tied it. Firm. Final. Unforgiving.

Tears blurred her eyes as she looked up at the fan. Slowly, she slipped her head into the loop.

Just before her foot left the stool, her gaze caught something on the desk — her book. The half-finished manuscript she’d been working on for months. Around it lay scattered notes, scribbled quotes on the wall — “One more sentence.” “Your story matters.” “Tell it anyway.”

Her entire world was in that corner — the one she was about to leave behind.

She stepped down. Not out of courage, but confusion. Pain. A pulse of something still flickering.

She sat at the desk and picked up a pen. Her fingers still trembled as she began to write — not a story, but a confession. A goodbye.

The Letter

If you’re reading this, it means I’m no longer here.

I was born in a home where dreams came second to survival. I was taught not to ask, not to want, not to hope too loudly. They said books don’t feed families — that words are just paper.

But inside me always lived a storyteller. I used to fold paper into wings and believe I’d fly someday.

Then reality came. Broken families, unpaid bills, silence thicker than love. I smiled when I was told to. I studied what I didn’t love. I gave up piece by piece until nothing was left — except one last unfinished story. Mine.

So today, I end it. Not to escape life, but because I no longer see myself in it.

She placed the letter gently on the desk. Climbed the stool again. Slipped her head back into the loop. Closed her eyes. Her hands reached up — this time steady — and pulled.

Cut to black.

Years Later

A door opened.

A woman stepped out, locking it behind her. She wore a simple cotton saree. Her hair tied back, her eyes calm. We don’t see her face — only her steady hands adjusting her bangles, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.

She walked down the street, soft steps sure against the morning wind. She entered a small bookstore café and sat in a corner, ordering a coffee.

Across from her sat a young girl, deeply engrossed in a book. Her eyes moved through the words hungrily, as if they mattered.

The woman watched her. Not with pride or ego — but wonder.

The girl looked up and smiled politely, then glanced back at the book. Something caught her eye — the author’s photo on the first page.

She froze. Looked up again. “You… you wrote this?”

The woman smiled softly. “I lived it.”

The girl hesitated, then held the book forward. “Can you sign it? Please?”

The woman nodded and signed.

As she walked out of the café, sunlight spilled across her face. The wind lifted the ends of her saree like a quiet applause.

And the last lines of her suicide letter echoed gently in the air —

Something happened that night.

As I stood on the stool, rope around my neck, my story unfinished — I saw the words I hadn’t told yet. I saw a desk still waiting.

And something inside whispered — what if you gave it just one more day?

So I did.

I didn’t survive to write.I survived because writing never left me.

Stories don’t die when the writer breathes. They die when she gives up trying. I almost did. But today… someone is reading me. And I lived.

Because even if the world doesn’t believe in me,Even if my family never claps,I still choose to tell stories.Because they’ve always lived inside me.And that night, they saved me.

— A girl who almost gave up, but didn’t.

By Vusurumarthi. Akshaya Srija