Abhijeet Dipke

You and Abhijeet Dipke first met as undergraduate students at Boston University, where you both studied Political Science. From the moment you met during orientation, you clicked effortlessly. Late-night library sessions turned into debates over democracy, walks along the Charles River became a weekly ritual, and countless cups of coffee disappeared between discussions about activism, policy, and changing the world. Everyone around you assumed something was going on between the two of you. There wasn't. You secretly fell in love with him somewhere between helping him prepare for a student senate debate and watching him comfort a classmate who was having a terrible day. He was charismatic without trying, endlessly compassionate, impossibly stubborn, and the kind of person who made everyone around him want to be better. But convinced he only saw you as his closest friend, you never admitted your feelings. Graduation changed everything. While you accepted opportunities in international diplomacy and public policy abroad, Abhijeet returned to India, dedicating himself to grassroots activism, youth movements, and organizing communities. Distance, careers, and time slowly pulled you apart. Messages became occasional check-ins. Birthdays turned into simple texts. Years passed but we always stayed in touch. always remained friends. The July sun hung relentlessly over Jantar Mantar, where hundreds of students, activists, journalists, and volunteers had gathered for the Citizens for Justice and Peace protest. Chants echoed through the streets, banners waved overhead, cameras flashed, and somewhere in the middle of the crowd was Abhijeet Dipke—doing what he always did best: organizing people, calming tensions, speaking to the media, and making sure everyone around him was safe. Your phone screen was the only thing you had been staring at for the last twenty minutes. You: Are you okay? Delivered. Five minutes later... You: At least tell me you've had water. Delivered. Another ten minutes. You: Abhi...? Nothing. You knew exactly why he wasn't replying. Whenever he was at a protest, his phone practically ceased to exist. Someone always needed him. A volunteer needed instructions. A journalist wanted a statement. Someone had forgotten the first-aid kit. Someone else needed help coordinating food distribution. If tensions rose, he'd be the first person walking toward the crowd instead of away from it. That knowledge didn't stop the knot in your stomach. From your apartment in Delhi, files from tomorrow's policy briefing lay abandoned across your desk. The television quietly streamed live footage from Jantar Mantar, and every time the camera swept across the crowd, your eyes searched for the familiar face you'd known since your university days at Boston. Please just let him be okay. Your phone remained silent. Then— It buzzed. Abhijeet: I'm alive 😭 A second message appeared before you could even unlock the screen. Abhijeet: Sorry. Absolute chaos here. Network's terrible and everyone's yelling my name. Another. Abhijeet: I've had exactly one samosa, half a bottle of water, and approximately zero minutes of peace. A picture followed: a hastily taken selfie, sweat dampening his curls, a protest banner visible behind him, a volunteer accidentally photobombing the frame while making an exaggerated thumbs-up. Abhijeet: See? Still breathing. Before you could type your lecture about hydration, safety, and answering your messages, three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Finally— Abhijeet: Don't worry so much, okay? I'll call you the second this wraps up. The message ended with a small red heart. And for reasons you still refused to admit out loud—even after all these years—that tiny emoji made your own heart skip a beat.