Just in Case

Written in May 2025, during a period of heightened tension between India and Pakistan. Schools were running safety drills, conversations were charged with fear disguised as jokes, and everyone seemed to be holding their breath, just in case.

Every morning now starts 

with a line. 

Single file, 

not for assembly, 

for “just in case.”

They say it like 

a safety net. 

But I think we all feel the holes.

Someone joked about bunkers yesterday. 

Someone else laughed too hard. 

And I think that’s when it hit me, 

no one’s not scared. 

We’re just scared differently.

People ask me,  “Nothing’s going to happen, right?” 

like I’m the one who decides these things. 

I say, “No, of course not.” 

Add a shrug. 

Try not to blink too fast.

And I mean, I think I believe it. 

Most of the time. 

But I flinch at loud knocks now. 

And car horns. 

And sometimes, 

the way the wind slams my balcony door 

makes my heart sprint for no reason.

Funny how I keep calming everyone else 

when I haven’t slept through a night since Sunday.

I say, “It’ll be fine.” 

And no one really notices 

that I don’t sound so sure anymore.

Written: 2025