'Hostel'

Nirashraya

Hostels are strange creatures.

They pretend to be just buildings, but really, they’re living diaries filled with thousands of overlapping stories — some loud enough to wake the floor, others buried so deep even the walls pretend they didn’t hear them.

Everyone talks about the “fun” — the midnight Maggi runs, the gossip marathons, the festivals that feel like home away from home. And yes, that part exists. But there’s also another chapter no one volunteers to read aloud: the chapter where the walls close in, and you can’t tell if it’s the lack of space or the lack of warmth that’s suffocating you.

Roommates? Ah, that’s a lottery you never signed up for but still have to play every single day. Some people win — they get sisters, partners-in-crime, midnight therapists. And then there are… the others. The “polite nod and nothing else” category. Mine? Let’s just say we could live in parallel universes and still talk exactly the same amount we do now — which is zero.

You learn quickly that in hostels, vulnerability is a luxury you can’t always afford.

Cry in the washroom if you must, but come out smiling — because apparently the world likes its people strong, or at least pretending to be. No one wants to hear about the emptiness that sits beside you while you study, or how laughter in the hallway sometimes sounds like it’s mocking you.

And yet… deep inside, there’s still that inner child.

The one who sometimes wants to curl up and cry — not for home exactly, but for the feeling of home. That one safe place where you can exist without performance. But even “home” doesn’t feel like that anymore. You think maybe a person could be your home, or even a pet — someone or something that claims you as theirs. But that too feels like a luxury you can’t have.

In the quiet hours, the questions creep in:

Am I so unworthy of love?

Don’t I deserve to be cared for, to be held with affection?

What crime did I commit against the universe that there’s no one for me?

Not that you want to wear this vulnerability on your sleeve — no, you’d rather guard it like a secret. But it hums inside you, steady and low, a sound only you can hear.

The truth? Loneliness in a hostel isn’t about being alone.

It’s about being surrounded by dozens of people and still feeling like a single mismatched sock in a drawer full of perfect pairs.

You learn to adjust — not because you’re fine, but because the alternative is explaining a feeling that doesn’t have enough words in the dictionary.

You eat your dinner, you scroll your phone, you stare at the ceiling pretending it’s not heavy. And slowly, you master the art of being okay without ever actually being okay.

But here’s the thing — life in a hostel isn’t the same for everyone. Some find their forever friends, some find their voice, and some… just find a way to get through another day.

If you’re in the last category, that’s okay. Truly. You don’t have to turn this into the “best days of your life” if they’re not.

Live it.

For yourself.

Even if it’s just one tiny victory at a time.

Because sometimes, in places like these, survival itself is the bravest thing you’ll ever do.