Quiet Imprints

The laptop was open on the table, still warm from last night.
I was in the drawer, under the old chargers and a highlighter that gave up years ago.

“Arre, you’re still here?” Typing said.
“Where will I go? This is my house now.”

“I don’t get why they’d keep you. I’m faster. I don’t smudge. I never leaked inside a school bag.”
“I remember that bag. The tiffin napkin never forgave me.”

Typing laughed a little, then stopped.
“You know what’s funny? Sometimes they type so much. Full of feelings. Then they stare at it, hold the backspace, and it’s all gone. I don’t even get to remember it.”

“I would have kept it,” I said. “Even the crossed-out parts. Especially those. That’s where they stopped and thought.”

“Nobody has ever cried on me. Not once.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a few stains.”

The fan whirred for a while.

“You remember the lunchbox notes?” I asked. “Eat properly, don’t share everything with friends. One line, rushed, because she was getting late for work.”
“That’s just a sentence. I can write that.”
“You can write the sentence. But he knew it was her from the way she wrote her ‘a’. The sentence was never the point.”

“And there’s a postcard in this house somewhere,” I said. “From a grandfather. Nobody reads it anymore. Nobody throws it away either.”

“Then what are you?” Typing asked. “If the words are the same.”

I didn’t know. Nobody had asked me that before.

“I think I’m just the time someone gave,” I said. “Nobody writes slowly for someone they don’t care about.”

Typing was quiet.
“Hmm. I still think I’m better.”
“You probably are. For most things.”

Morning came.
The door opened, someone pulled the drawer, moved a few chargers around, and took one.
Then the sound of keys. Tak tak tak tak.

“Good morning,” Typing said.
“Morning,” I said.

The drawer didn’t close all the way. Maybe they forgot.