The Unfinished
Conversation….
Rohan was everything you’d imagine a larger-than-life character to be. Charming to the point of ridiculousness, sharp as a whip, and magnetic in ways that words can’t fully capture. Teachers adored him. Students gravitated toward him. He was the kind of guy who could turn a boring afternoon into a memory, a stranger into a friend, and a crowd into a family.
Together, we were the talk of the campus. “If they’re laughing, the college is alive,” someone once said about us, and they weren’t wrong. We were inseparable, two halves of a hurricane that swept through the mundane routine of lectures, exams, and deadlines. When we fought—and trust me, our fights were legendary—the entire college held its breath.
“You two will make up,” they’d say, laughing nervously. “You always do.”
And we always did.
But Rohan was more than just a friend to me. He was the kind of person who saw you—not just the version of you that you showed the world, but the messy, complicated, vulnerable parts of you. He had this way of pulling people out of their shells, of making them believe they belonged, no matter how broken or unsure they felt. He made me believe that, too.
I remember the night we stayed up on the hostel terrace, staring at the stars. “You know what I love about us?” he asked. “We don’t need to say anything to get each other. We just... do.”
And he was right. We did. Until, one day, I didn’t.
It started subtly, almost imperceptibly. He began missing our usual hangouts, brushing off plans with casual excuses. “I’ve got something on,” he’d say. “Next time, for sure.” Then came the big shock: “I got a job,” he announced one day. “I’m not finishing college.”
It didn’t make sense. Rohan loved college. It was his kingdom, his stage. Walking away felt like him abandoning a part of himself. But when I pressed him, he gave me that grin—the one that could convince you of anything—and said, “Relax, I’m fine.”
Except he wasn’t.
Deep down, I knew something was wrong. I felt it in the silences that stretched a little too long, in the laughter that didn’t quite reach his eyes. But every time I tried to ask, he deflected. “You’re overthinking,” he’d say. “I’ve got this.”
And I let it go. Because I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him.
August 15, 2011.
The morning felt off, though I couldn’t put my finger on why. I was at the Independence Day flag hoisting with my sister, my phone on silent, its buzz drowned out by the crowd. I didn’t see the calls until later. Three missed calls from Rohan.
When I tried calling him back, he didn’t answer. The next day, the call came—not from him, but about him.
Rohan was gone. He had taken his life.
I can’t describe what happened inside me at that moment. It was as if the world had stopped spinning, as if the air had been sucked out of the universe. Everything went silent—except for the sound of my own screams, echoing inside my head. Why? That was the only word I could muster.
Why? That was the only word I could muster. Why would he do this? Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t I see it coming?
If you’ve ever felt this way—like you’re playing catch-up in a world that expects you to have it all together—you’re not alone. I’ve learned that it’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay to start over, even if it’s later than everyone else. What matters is that you start.
And if you’re someone who grew up in a home like mine, here’s what I want to say: you’re not broken. You’re learning. You’re growing. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that every step, no matter how small, brought you closer to the person you were always meant to be.
So here I am, figuring it out one day at a time. It’s messy, and it’s hard, and sometimes it feels like I’m walking uphill in the rain. But I’m walking. And for now, that’s enough.
