Paper Boats

By Anushka Devesh

When I was a child, the rain was never just water. It was an invitation. I folded pages torn from old notebooks into paper boats and set them free on the streams that filled the streets. Each boat carried something more than paper: a secret, a wish, a dream too fragile to speak aloud.

I believed the boats would travel to places I could not reach. I imagined them drifting into oceans, finding shores where someone kind would unfold them and read my unspoken words. For me, every boat was a messenger of hope.

Years passed, and I outgrew the habit. Life became heavier than rain. Books replaced boats, and deadlines replaced dreams. 

I still saw children kneeling by puddles, placing their folded ships into the current, and I wanted to tell them that the water would swallow everything. But I never spoke. It felt cruel to break a faith I once held.

One evening, during a storm, I found myself standing at the edge of the street where the water rushed like a tiny river. I bent down, almost without thinking, and folded a page from my diary into a boat. My hands trembled as I let it float. Written inside were words I never dared to say: I miss you.

The boat swayed, stumbled, and finally surrendered to the current. I watched it vanish, carried away just like the person it was meant for. For a moment, the rain blurred everything, my face, the street, the world. And I realized that paper boats were never about reaching anyone. They were about letting go.

Now, whenever it rains, I stand at the window and watch the streams forming paths across the earth. Somewhere in that restless water, I see the fleet of all the boats I ever folded, carrying the weight of dreams, losses, and promises. None of them returned, but perhaps that was the point.

Paper boats are not meant to last. They are meant to teach us that even fragile things can carry the heaviest truths.

And sometimes, when the night is silent and the rain does not come, I dream of a distant shore. On that shore, a child I no longer recognize kneels beside the water, unfolding one of my boats. Inside, in handwriting that looks like mine yet feels ancient, are the words: I was here. I tried. I hoped.

By Anushka Devesh