It takes a second.
Just one second for life to split into before and after.
Just one second for a routine flight to become a headline.
Just one second—and the sky forgets how to hold us.
When the news of the Ahmedabad plane crash broke, the world, as usual, paused for a few moments. Twitter flooded. WhatsApp groups stirred. News channels scrambled for footage. And for a moment, we all looked up—not to dream, but to wonder if we were still safe.
But for the families waiting at the airport that day, time didn’t pause.
It shattered.
Someone had packed a tiffin for their son. Someone had promised to call when they landed. Someone had said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be there by evening.”
None of them imagined the evening would arrive alone.
We live in a world of “breaking news.”
But the most broken part is never the news.
It’s the silence that follows.
We hear about a crash. We check if we know someone. We feel a flicker of fear. Then we scroll away.
But grief doesn’t scroll.
It stays. Quiet. Heavy. Forgotten by the world, remembered by the ones left behind.
I didn’t know anyone on that flight.
But I know what it means to lose without warning.
I know how a normal day can suddenly become one you never stop living inside.
And I know that sometimes, the worst pain isn’t the noise—but the fact that life keeps going as if nothing happened.
Why do we only feel life when it disappears?
Why does it take tragedy for us to listen?
Maybe it’s because we’ve taught ourselves to run.
To be productive.
To chase more.
To plan next week before this one even finishes.
We build lives made of speed—and then feel betrayed when the world slows us down without asking.
But here’s the truth no one wants to say:
No one is promised tomorrow.
Not the successful. Not the kind. Not even the careful.
We’re all just one moment away from becoming a memory.
And yet—we live like we’re infinite.
We forget to call.
We postpone our dreams.
We silence our hearts.
We keep saying, “Someday.”
But sometimes, someday never comes.
So today, if you’re reading this, I hope you pause.
Not because a crash happened.
But because you’re still here.
Say the thing you’ve been holding back.
Take the trip.
Forgive someone.
Write the story.
Answer the call.
Look someone you love in the eye and tell them without waiting:
“I’m glad you’re here.”
The sky doesn’t owe us safety.
But we owe each other presence.
Because one day, you’re flying home.
And the next, someone is still checking their phone—waiting for “Landed safely.”
