Riya stared at the talent show poster like it had personally betrayed her.
In big, glittery letters: "St. Mary's Annual Talent Show – Where Dreams Shine!"
And underneath, in Megha's unmistakable handwriting:
"Riya Sharma – Stand-Up Comedy (Solo)"
Dreams didn't shine. Dreams backstabbed you in the hallway.
"Megha. WHY."
Megha: "Because you're funny!"
Riya: "Funny in a sad, sarcastic way. Not funny in front of three hundred humans!"
Megha: "Exactly. Sad-sarcastic is trending."
And me? I was tucked inside her bag, silently vibrating with laughter. Because honestly, this was inevitable. Megha's been trying to get her on a stage since forever.
But Riya wasn't buying it. She marched down the hallway, pink hoodie flapping like a protest flag. "Nope. Nope. NOPE."
Of course, destiny (and her best friend's persistence) had other plans.
---
By lunch, everyone already knew.
Varun was singing "Comedian Riyaaa!" like a Bollywood title track. Kabir raised an eyebrow. "Stand-up, huh? About what?"
"About how I'll murder my best friend for signing me up," Riya snapped.
Even Naina joined in: "You'll need confidence for that, Sharma. Maybe practice... speaking without food in your mouth?"
Riya's grin returned, sharp as a knife. "Sure, Naina. And you can coach me—you've got plenty of experience talking to mirrors."
That one landed so hard, even the teachers laughed.
But jokes aside—that night, she couldn't sleep.
The idea of standing on stage made her stomach twist.
Her thoughts tumbled into me, line after line:
Dear Lunch Box,
What if I freeze? What if no one laughs?
What if I become "the fat girl who failed at being funny"? The pen pressed harder.
Why do I always make fun of myself before anyone else can?
Her words smudged at the edges—not from tears, exactly, but from the way she hesitated.
Because deep down, she knew she wasn't scared of the stage. She was scared of being seen.
---
The next day, Kabir found her sitting under the banyan tree near the field. She didn't notice him at first, too busy scribbling punchlines in me.
He sat down quietly beside her. "You'll kill it, you know."
Riya snorted. "Yeah. Myself, maybe."
Kabir shook his head. "You make people feel seen, Riya. That's rarer than being funny."
She blinked. For once, no comeback. Just a small, nervous smile.
Later that night, her entry read:
Fine, Lunch Box.
Maybe I'll try. Not because I think I'll win—but because maybe, for once, I won't hide.
And somewhere in her handwriting—between the jokes and the fear—I swear I could see it:
The start of her becoming someone new.
---
The next evening, Riya stood in her living room. Varun sprawled on the couch, phone in hand. Her mom chopping vegetables in the kitchen. Her dad hidden behind his newspaper.
"Okay," she announced, voice shaking. "I'm... I'm going to practice."
Varun looked up. "Oh, this should be good."
She cleared her throat. Tried to remember her opening line. Her mind went blank.
"Um. Hi. I'm Riya Sharma and... uh..."
Silence.
Varun waited. Her mom glanced over. Even her dad lowered the newspaper slightly.
"I'm Riya and... people say I should diet but... I think... samosas are better than... fitting in?"
It came out like a question. Uncertain. Weak.
Varun blinked. "That's it?"
"I'm not done!"
"Okay, okay. Keep going."
But she couldn't. The words tangled in her throat. Her hands were shaking. This was *nothing* like joking with friends at lunch. This was performing. Being watched. Being judged.
"You know what? Forget it." She turned to leave.
"Didi, wait—"
"I said forget it!"
She ran upstairs, slammed her door, and grabbed me.
Dear Lunch Box,
I can't do this. I thought I could but I CAN'T. I'm not funny when people are actually WATCHING. I'm just... nothing.
Why did I think wearing a pink top made me brave? That was one day. One shirt. This is STANDING ON A STAGE.
I'm going to tell Megha I'm backing out. She'll be mad but she'll get over it.
—
She closed me. Stared at the ceiling. Felt like the smallest version of herself.
Then her phone buzzed.
Megha: i know you're spiraling. meet me at the park tomorrow. bring your jokes. we're fixing this.
---
The next afternoon, Riya found Megha sitting on a bench at the neighborhood park, notebook open, looking unusually serious.
"okay," Megha said. "Let's figure out what went wrong."
"Everything went wrong."
"Specific problems only. We're workshopping."
Riya slumped onto the bench. "I froze. My brain just... stopped."
"Because you were trying to be someone else. A 'comedian.'" Megha made air quotes. "But you're funniest when you're just being YOU. Talking. Ranting. Roasting people."
"I can't roast three hundred people."
"No, but you can talk TO them. Like they're your friends. Like you're just... venting."
Riya thought about it. At lunch, she never planned jokes. They just happened. When Naina was annoying and Varun stole her food and life also feels ridiculous.
"So... less performance, more... conversation?"
"Exactly."
Megha opened the notebook. "Now. Tell me something that made you mad this week."
Riya didn't even hesitate. "My mom told me I should 'try yoga' while literally frying parathas in a bathtub of butter."
Megha grinned. "THAT. That's your opening."
And for the next hour, they didn't write jokes. They just talked. About aunties who gave unwanted advice. About uniforms that never fit right. About trying to take up space in a world that kept telling you to shrink.
By the end, Riya wasn't reciting lines. She was just... talking. And it felt right.
---
Three days until the talent show.
Riya was tired, the kind of tired that no chai could fix. Her notes looked like a rainbow crime scene. Her brain, a fried motherboard. And somewhere between "photosynthesis" and "Pythagoras," the old voice crept back in—that small, sharp whisper she hadn't heard in weeks.
You're not good enough.
At first, she ignored it. Then it got louder.
You're funny, not smart. You're brave, not brilliant. You'll mess this up.
I could feel her grip tighten on the pen as she scribbled in me that night.
Dear Lunch Box,
Why do old doubts never die? I thought I'd outgrown this. But tonight, they're louder again.
Everyone thinks I've got it together—the funny, confident girl. But sometimes I feel like I'm performing even when I'm alone.
The ink smudged at the bottom of the page. Not tears exactly, but something close.
---
The next morning, she couldn't focus. She walked to school with heavy steps, hoodie up, earphones in, music loud—like armor.
At the gate, Kabir was waiting, sketchbook under his arm as usual. He looked at her face, then at the silence around her, and said simply:
"You didn't sleep."
"You're observant," she muttered.
"You're scared."
"I'm fine."
"Liar."
That made her look up.
"It's just the talent show, Kabir. I'm not—"
"It's not the show," he said gently. "It's the voice in your head."
Something about the way he said it—calm, sure, without pity—broke the tension. Riya let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
"I hate that voice," she whispered.
"Then drown it," he said, handing her his earbuds.
"With what?"
"Your own."
He pressed play. Her favorite song filled her ears.
And just like that, the storm inside quieted—not gone, but softer.
She wrote that night:
Dear Lunch Box,
Maybe growth isn't about silencing the bad thoughts. Maybe it's about talking louder than them. and today Kabir said my voice matters. I think I'm finally starting to believe him.
---
On the day of talent show .The auditorium was like a jungle—bright lights, buzzing speakers, murmuring students. Every seat was taken, every classmate armed with judgment and samosas.
Riya peeked through the curtain backstage. Her stomach was doing gymnastics. Naina was up first—reciting a flawless poem about ambition and the moon. The crowd clapped politely, like they always did for her.
Then Megha performed a dance that probably blinded half the audience with glitter.
And then... "Next up, we have Riya Sharma—Stand-up Comedy!"
Her heart dropped. Her palms sweated. Her hoodie suddenly felt too heavy.
Dear Lunch Box,
If I faint, please make sure they at least play good background music.
She stepped out, mic wobbling in her hands. The lights hit her face—harsh, hot, exposing. For a heartbeat, she froze. Silence.
The kind that could either destroy you or dare you to speak.
Then, she remembered Megha's voice: "If they don't laugh, laugh first."
So she did. A nervous chuckle at her own panic. The audience chuckled too. Just like that, the air cracked open.
"Hi, I'm Riya Sharma," she began, her voice trembling. "And before anyone asks—no, I'm not here to sing, dance, or lose weight. I'm here because my best friend signed me up and clearly wants me to die."
Laughter. Real laughter. It rolled through the room like a wave.
She smiled. And kept going.
"My mom says I should start yoga. I told her I already do—every time she makes me run for the school bus, it's cardio and prayer combined."
The crowd roared. Even Professor Sharma cracked a sleepy grin in the front row.
"People say confidence comes from within. Well, my confidence comes from samosas. One bite and I believe I can conquer the world—or at least pass math."
By now, the laughter was nonstop. Even Naina had her hand over her mouth, trying not to giggle.
She took a breath. Looked out at the sea of faces. And decided to try something riskier.
"People always tell me I have 'such a pretty face.' Which is basically code for 'too bad about the rest of you.' So now when someone says that, I just reply, 'Thanks! You have such a... face.' They never know how to respond."
Huge laughter. A few cheers. She was flying now. The fear was still there, but it was smaller like Background noise.
Then she tried her next joke—the one about diets and family dinners—and it... didn't land.
A few awkward chuckles. Someone coughed and Panic flared. The silence stretched, becoming uncomfortable.
From somewhere in the audience, a voice yelled: "Just be yourself, Riya!"
She didn't know who. Didn't matter. She took a breath. Looked out at the crowd. And decided to stop performing.
"Okay, real talk," she said, voice softer. "I'm scared right now. Like, genuinely terrified. Because standing up here feels like admitting I exist. And for a long time, I didn't want to exist too loudly, you know?"
The audience went quiet. But not uncomfortable quiet. Listening quiet.
"People spend so much time telling me to shrink—talk less, eat less, be less. But guess what?"
She looked right at Naina. Then at Megha. Then at Kabir.
"I take up space. And I'm done apologizing for it."
The room exploded. Not polite claps—real, thundering applause. Some were cheering. Some were standing. Megha was crying in full eyeliner.
And Riya?
She laughed, For real. Not at herself, but for herself.
---
That night, she wrote in me:
Dear Lunch Box,
They laughed. Not at me—with me.
For once, I didn't hide behind jokes. I stood in them.
And it felt... good. Like maybe I can love this version of me—the loud, messy, unapologetic one.
—
And as the ink dried, I realized the truth:
The girl who once used humor to protect herself now used it to shine.
That night, Riya Sharma wasn't just funny, She was free.