Riya Sinha
Fremont, CA
2025, Junior, Creative Writing

Day One

We got here today. Dad calls this trip a “reset,” which honestly sounds like he’s trying to fix a broken laptop. I didn’t want to come. But here we are, stuck in a creaky beach house that smells like sandalwood and lemon. The sandalwood makes my chest ache—it’s what Mom always used when she did morning puja.

Kiran’s already rolled into the ocean like a dramatic Bollywood hero. He’s convinced he saw a sea monster. I told him to stop watching Ramayana clips before bed. He keeps yelling, “THE OCEAN IS A MONSTER’S BATHTUB!” and charging into the waves like some sea gladiator. He got wiped out in five seconds flat and then insisted the ocean cheated.

Also, fun fact: Kiran brought his entire Pokémon card binder but forgot shoes. Priorities.

Day Two

It rained all morning. Dad made pancakes and tried to act normal. He does that thing where he hums like he’s not about to cry into the syrup. I didn’t say anything. I just kept stabbing my pancake like it was responsible for my trauma.

Kiran found a weird rock and said it was a dinosaur tooth. It’s definitely just a rock. I told him that. He said, “You’re just mad because I have a fossil and you don’t.” Honestly? A little.

I laughed. Like… an actual laugh. Then felt guilty. I hate that. How grief makes you suspicious of your own happiness. Like: Am I allowed to find something funny when everything hurts? But also, Kiran fell into a tide pool trying to impress a crab, so—yes. Yes, I am.

Day Three

Okay. Something big happened.

I found Mom’s old journal. It was stuffed behind the headboard in the attic bedroom like a secret. Her handwriting’s still soft and curly, like it leans when it walks. She wrote about the weather, about the waves, about me.

One line said: “Tara laughed today and it sounded like a seashell cracking.” Which, okay, weirdly specific and mildly poetic, but also—me? I used to laugh like that?

I sat there hugging this beat-up journal like it was a teddy bear and pretended I didn’t just forget what her handwriting looked like. I didn’t cry. But I felt it. Right in the chest. Like a storm with no thunder.

Also, a spider dropped on me while I was reading and I screamed so loud Kiran thought I was being possessed. So that was humbling.

Day Four

I brought the journal down to the tide pools. It was still early. Fog everywhere. The sky looked like it hadn’t had coffee yet.

Inside the journal was a little pressed sea lavender flower. And under it, this: “She’s growing so fast. I wonder if she knows how beautiful she is when she’s trying not to cry.”

Cue emotional damage.

I cried. Like, full-on, snotty, dramatic crying. My knees gave out and I sat in the wet sand like I was in a sad music video. I don’t even know what I was crying about. Everything? Nothing? Mom? Me? Probably all of it.

Then a shell rolled up to my foot. Inside it was a piece of sea glass, green and smooth. It felt like the ocean handed it to me and said, “Yeah, kid. I see you.”

Mom used to collect them and call them “sea’s prasad” — offerings left after storms. I kept it. Obviously. It’s basically my new emotional support object.

Day Five

I took Kiran back to the tide pools. I told him about the anemones. He stuck his finger in one and shrieked like it bit him. He now calls them “ocean squishies” and declared himself their king.

I told him about hermit crabs and how they steal shells when they grow. He said I sound like Mom and then tackled me into the sand because he has zero chill.

I gave him the sea glass. Told him it was his now. He said, “Really? Even though I accidentally dropped your Switch in the bathtub last year?” (Yes. That happened. No, I’m still not over it.)

That night I left Mom’s journal open on the windowsill. The breeze kept flipping the pages like it was reading. I think the ocean might be fluent in cursive.

Day Six

I drew today. I hadn’t in a while. Not since… everything.

I drew the sea glass in my hand, the tide pooling around my feet, and something like Mom—not her face exactly, but her warmth. That feeling you get when she hugs you after a nightmare and hums a Bollywood song and everything feels safe.

Dad saw. He said nothing at first, just stood behind me. Then he said softly, “She loved it here. Said the ocean made her feel understood.”

Then he left. Classic Dad move. Emotional hit-and-run.

But he’s not wrong. The ocean does get it. It’s moody and soft and full of things that sting you if you’re not careful.

I think that’s why I keep coming back.

Day Seven

We’re leaving. I’m not going to be dramatic and say I’m sad. Except I totally am. I didn’t think this trip would change anything. And maybe it didn’t in a big, fireworks way. But something definitely shifted.

I took one last walk to the tide pool. Just me. I stood there with the sea glass in my hand and the notebook in my hoodie pocket. I didn’t even cry this time. I just felt… full.

I tore out a page and wrote something:

“I didn’t want to come here. I thought it would just hurt. But the sea doesn’t ask for anything. It just listens. It waits. And somehow, that helped. I’m not okay. But I’m not drowning either.”

I folded it and tucked it between some rocks. A secret offering. A thank you.

I whispered a shloka she used to say at night:

“Asato mā sad gamaya, tamaso mā jyotir gamaya…”

(Lead me from the unreal to the real, from darkness to light.)

As I stood to go, the sunlight hit the waves just right. I didn’t see her. But I felt her—warm on my back, like the soft touch of a mother’s hand blessing you in silence.

I didn’t look again. I didn’t need to.

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the things the sea doesn’t say