The last page of a calendar

Neha was reading a book when she noticed the last page of the calendar fluttering slightly. She tugged at the bottom edge, the way her mother always did every month end, but the page stayed put, as though holding on to its last breath.

“That’s strange,” Neha muttered. The calendar hung beside her study table, filled with crooked pencil marks, circled dates, and tiny doodles she had drawn during her home tutoring classes and homework time. December 31 stared back at her in bold red letters. She tugged again.

“Please don’t. Not yet!” a voice said softly. Neha froze.

The room was quiet. Her parents were in the living room, arguing about whether they had enough snacks for the midnight party. Outside, people were bursting firecrackers impatiently, practising for later.

“Who said that?” Neha whispered.

“I did. Up here,” said the voice. 

Neha looked up. The calendar page trembled slightly.

“You… spoke?” she said, her eyes wide.

“Yes,” the page replied calmly. “I only do this once a year. On the last day.”

Neha let go immediately, and said: “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t. You were just doing what everyone does. Tearing me away,” said the page.

Neha pulled her chair closer and sat down slowly, facing the calendar. “But calendars don’t talk!” “They do. You don’t listen, as always,” the page said.

Neha thought about laughing, but something about the page’s voice stopped her. It wasn’t spooky; it sounded tired.

“Why today?” Neha asked. “Because I’m almost done. And before I go, I like to check in,” said the page.

“Check in?” Neha repeated.

The page replied: “Yes. With the children who lived with me.” It added: “You used me every day. You crossed out dates, circled exams, and counted days till your birthday. You lived on me more than you realise.”

Neha glanced at the page. She could see the small notes written in different inks. Across pages, it said: Maths test. School picnic cancelled. Grandma came home. A bad day. A very good day!!!

“I didn’t know you remembered all that,” Neha said.

“Oh, I remember everything. The day you cried in the bathroom because a teacher falsely blamed you for talking. The afternoon you laughed so hard milk came out of your nose. The evening you sat quietly because someone didn’t talk to you at school,” recalled the page.

“That was embarrassing...,” Neha said in a hushed voice.

“Maybe, but they were all important days. Because those moments made you stronger,” said the page.

The 10-year-old girl leaned back on a chair in the room. “I didn’t like this year very much.”

The page was quiet for a moment. “I know,” it said finally. “You lost important things.”

“My best friend moved away to another state and stopped calling. My pet dog ran away. And school was hard,” Neha said quickly.

“I know... I was there for all of it,” said the page.

Neha teared up. “Then why didn’t you make it better?”

The page rustled softly, as if choosing its words carefully. “Because that wasn’t my job. My job was to carry the days and not to fix them,” it said.

Neha stared at the calendar. “And now... are you sad to go?” she asked.

“No. I’m tired. But I’m very proud of you,” the page replied.

Neha blinked. “Of me?”

“Yes. You kept going. Even on days you wanted to hide under your bed, you showed up. You learned. You changed.”

“I still feel the same,” Neha said.

“Change is sneaky,” said the page laughingly.

Outside her house, someone lit a long chain of firecrackers. The sound rattled the windows.

“What happens if I don’t tear you?” Neha asked quietly.

The page’s voice softened. “Then tomorrow won’t come.”

Neha’s throat tightened as she said, “But I’m not ready.”

“Most people aren’t. That’s why I need you to be brave,” said the page.

Neha reached out, her fingers hovering near the edge. “Will I forget you?” she asked.

“No. I will live in you. Just like how you hesitate before giving up, how you are kinder to yourself, and how you understand someone else’s bad day,” said the page.

Neha nodded slowly. “Will the new year be better?” she asked.

The page smiled and said, “I don’t know. But it will be new. And you will not be starting from zero.”

From the living room, her mother called, “Neha! Two minutes to midnight. Come fast!”

Neha took a deep breath. “Thank you for everything,” she said.

“For what?” the page asked.

“For carrying my good and bad days with me,” Neha replied.

The page said peacefully: “Go on. I’ve done my part.”

Neha held the page carefully and pulled. This time, it ripped off easily.

As she folded it and tucked it into her notebook, the clock struck twelve.

“Happy New Year!” her parents shouted.

Neha smiled. Tomorrow and a whole new year were waiting.