I was born last night, under the weary hum of a flickering bulb. Her pen pressed onto me repeatedly, leaving words that shook in their curves but burned with hope. She folded me carefully, as if folding her very life into my paper skin and slipped me into her handbag. I felt her palm rest there, heavy but warm, as if to keep me alive.

By morning, her sandals struck the lane in hurried beats. She checked the bag often, touching me, smoothing me through the leather, making sure her dream hadn’t flown away. The air smelled of fried bread and cardamom tea, and the sky was scrubbed too clean, as if someone had washed it overnight.

She whispered to herself, to me:
“Today, he will know.” Today, he will see.”

The café doors opened. The brass bell above the door gave a brittle ring, and I entered with her. The walls smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon. Tables were cluttered with students pretending to study, couples leaning too close, and lone workers with eyes glued to glowing screens. The barista’s playlist filled the soft at first, then swelling.

….He said, “Let’s get out of this town
Drive out of the city, away from the crowds”
I thought Heaven can’t help me now
Nothing lasts forever
But this is gonna take me down….(Taylor Swift, Wildest Dreams)

She smiled faintly at the sound, as if the song had been chosen for her alone. Her hand pressed the bag tighter, pressing me against her ribs.

She ordered tea, not coffee. The spoon clinked steadily against glass as she stirred, though her fingers trembled. Every few minutes she pulled me out halfway, unfolded me just enough to see the words, then folded me again. It was rehearsal, like whispering a prayer to herself. I carried her dream, and she needed to believe it still belonged to her.

But before he arrived, shadows slipped in. Not people but whispers. From the table behind, two girls with bright nails scrolled through their phones. They leaned close, giggling, voices lowered but sharp.
“Did you hear? About her?”
“Yeah. They say she’s already carrying it. Careless.”
A laugh. A glance toward my owner. And then their laughter spread, bouncing off walls, infecting the air.

Lies never wait for proof.

Her shoulders stiffened. Her tea went cold. Still, she touched the bag again, reminding herself I was there. I was supposed to be her shield, her voice, her dream.

The bell chimed again. He walked in. Tall, handsome, wearing the same half-smile that had convinced her to trust him. Her face lit up, eyes wide, lips trembling with joy she tried to hide. She stood before he reached her, with one hand ready to draw me out, to give him everything she had written.

But even before he sat down, the whispers had reached him too.

He slid into the chair opposite her, but there was no light in his eyes. No greeting, no warmth, only a heavy pause with something unsaid. She reached for her bag, fingertips brushing against me, ready to lift me out into the light.

Then his voice, flat, careful, already poisoned.
“Is it true?”

The air between them stiffened. She blinked, not understanding. He leaned closer.
“they’re saying things… about you. That you’re pregnant. That you’ve been careless.”

Her hand froze above me. For a moment, I thought she would laugh, dismiss it, unwrap me anyway. But the whispers had already tightened their grip on her chest. Her lips parted, no words came.

I tried to scream through the folds of paper: show him, show him what you wrote, show him the truth.

But she stayed silent.

The café, obliviously, kept moving. Cups clinked. Milk steamed. A chair scraped the tiled floor. And from the speakers, as if mocking the moment, the song played on.

….I said, “No one has to know what we do”
His hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room
And his voice is a familiar sound
Nothing lasts forever
But this is getting good now

He’s so tall and handsome as hell
He’s so bad, but he does it so well
And when we’ve had our very last kiss
My last request is

Say you’ll remember me…..

She flinched at the words, as though the song itself had betrayed her.

He sat back, arms folded. “I just need to know if it’s true.” His voice had grown colder, as though her hesitation was proof enough.

Her tea had gone untouched. The steam had long died. She stared at the cup as though its rippled surface might give her an answer. When she finally looked at him, her eyes were wide with hurt.
“Do you think I would lie to you?” she whispered.

But the question did not break the wall between them. His silence was an answer of his own.

I could feel her heartbeat through the bag. Faster. Louder. But not with hope, this was panic, shame, anger. She pressed me flat, crushing the words I carried, as if afraid he would see them and laugh.

For a moment, she rose, as if to leave. But then she sat back down, clutching the edge of the table. “Why do you listen to them?” she asked, her voice trembling. “You know me.”

He looked away, toward the window, where the sunlight poured in too brightly. “People don’t talk without reason.”

That sentence was the hammer. I felt her dream collapse inside her, shattering into pieces that fell between us like shards of glass no one could sweep away.

She did not answer. She only pressed her hand against me once more, tighter this time, until my folds bent. Her eyes filled, but no tears fell. She would not let him see her break.

He checked his phone. A message buzzed. His mouth tightened. And then, without meeting her again, he rose from the table. The brass bell above the door rang sharply as he left, cutting through the café air like a blade.

The whispers behind us grew louder. “See? Even he knows.” “Told you.” Laughter.

She sat frozen for a long time. Then slowly, with fingers stiff and pale, she drew me out of the bag. Her eyes moved across the words she had written love, trust, and tomorrow like someone reading a language they no longer understood.

Her fingers lingered on my edges, then tightened. She folded me once more, harder this time, as though pressing down on the beating heart I carried. For a second I thought she might still hold me close, take me back, rewrite the ending.

But no. Her hand shook. Her lips trembled. She pressed me flat against the table, then clenched her fist until my skin cracked along the folds. The words bled together, smudged with the salt of her tears.

The café noise blurred around us. Chairs scraped, cups clinked, someone’s laughter pierced the air. But all I heard was her silence, a louder silence than anything else.

From the speakers, another verse floated across the room.

…Say you’ll remember me
Standing in a nice dress
Staring at the sunset, babe
Red lips and rosy cheeks
Say you’ll see me again
Even if it’s just in your wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha (ha-ah, ha)
Wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha….

The timing was cruel. The song spoke of longing, memory, of being remembered even when love is gone. But here, her dream was not a memory, it was being buried alive, right here on this table.

She rose at last, her chair scraping the floor with a hollow sound. For a moment, she looked around the café. Eyes followed her, but no one spoke. The whispers had done their job.Her story already written for her, by voices not her own.

She clutched me one last time, then released me into the waste bin by the door. I landed among crumpled napkins and coffee grounds, my words smeared, my body bent.

I had been her dream. Now I was rubbish.

Outside, she walked slowly, her shadow stretching thin in the late sun. She wiped her cheeks, squared her shoulders, but I could feel how hollow she had become. The hope folded into me had collapsed in a minute. Snapped not by truth but by whispers.

The café carried on. New customers arrived, laughter floated, chairs scraped. No one noticed the girl who had left with empty hands. No one noticed me.

From the corner speaker, the song circled back again, soft and persistent, as though it had never stopped.

….Say you’ll remember me
Standing in a nice dress
Staring at the sunset, babe…

The notes seeped into the air, brushing past my torn edges. I thought of her face as she wrote me, eyes bright, lips curved with a shy smile. The future she had pressed into my skin might still have been hers.

But here I lay, folded into silence.