A Trip Between Hearts – Family, Friendship, and the Silence That Followed

Most of the trips I’ve taken in life were with my family.

Every year, during the long holidays, we would pack our bags and head somewhere — a new place, a familiar comfort. These were not just trips. They were memories stitched with love and care. Wherever we went, my family took care of everything — especially me.

They watched over me, gently helped recharge my cochlear implant, and reminded me to carry my backup batteries. My parents, my cousins — they made sure I was okay. Whether we were walking through busy streets or playing in parks, I felt safe. I enjoyed being with them.

And yet… I used to wonder.

Why can't I go on a trip with friends?

What would it feel like — the experience, the excitement, the freedom?

I watched so many movies — scenes of friends going on long road trips, to hill stations, beaches, staying together in groups, singing in buses, running into the sea, sharing snacks, secrets, and selfies. And every time I saw those stories, something inside me whispered: Will that ever be me?

One day, I asked my family.

They said yes. They agreed to let me go on a trip with friends.

But during college, things weren’t that simple.

I didn’t have a solid group or gang of friends. No circle. I was just… there.

Randomly joining others for college events, extension activities, industrial visits. I went because I wanted to get credits. But the truth is, I was just acting like I was enjoying it.

Inside, it hurt.

I never had a real friend-trip — not more than a one-day college trip. Even during those, I never felt like I truly belonged. I walked with them, I laughed with them, but I always knew — I was not with them.

In my final year, I hung out twice with two close friends from another department. We visited the mall, just the three of us. And with them, I felt something different. Real happiness. I could be myself. We laughed without effort. That feeling was precious.

But still, something stayed with me.

When I was in 11th grade, a friend from the next class once called me unexpectedly — invited me to the movies. I was so surprised. When I reached, I saw that two couples had come along. I was the only single person there.

Even then, I truly enjoyed the moment. Because I was invited. Because they thought of me.

But being a cochlear implant user… trips are never simple.

I can't swim. I can’t play in water unless I remove my device. I have to take it off before entering water, and then I’m cut off from the world. I can’t play adventure games wearing it. I avoid sweat, I avoid rain. I walk carefully in parks. At the beach, I always hold someone’s hand — usually a cousin or a parent.

I have to keep monitoring the battery level. It can drain anytime.

I need to plan in advance.

I need to carry backups.

I need to protect it from dust, heat, moisture, and sudden accidents.

Trips with friends… they’re filled with spontaneity, fun, chaos.

But for me, it requires planning, caution, care.

Maybe that’s why they never invited me.

One day, I saw photos online — five of my classmates, the ones I called “close friends.” They had gone on a trip to the hill station. A proper getaway. Without me.

I had called one of them my best friend.

But I was not their best friend.

They never told me. Never asked. Never even mentioned it.

And when I saw those photos — their happy faces, their silly poses —

something inside me broke into pieces.

Not small ones.

Millions.

Not because of what was said — but because of everything left unsaid.

But the last year of college gave me one small piece of peace.

That same friend — the one who invited me to the movie back in school — she reached out again. After five years, she was still there. We went out to the space museum. We talked. We laughed. I didn’t have to pretend. We were just two, eating, walking, smiling.

That day, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Fulfilled.

💬 Closing Quote:

“Trips with family gave me love. The absence of friends taught me strength.

But somewhere between the two, I found myself — walking alone, but still walking.”