Sundays in the hostel were slow.
Laundry days.Long baths.Half conversations.Incomplete plans.
Ananya sat cross-legged on her bed, notebook open, pages already filled with crossed-out ideas.
Podcast.Blog.YouTube.College group.
None of it felt right.
She thought of the Pulse office.Of the email.Of Meher's words.
If they won't build the space I need, I will start with the floor.
She opened her laptop.
Not to apply.
To create.
She didn't name it immediately.
She just opened a document and started writing.
About her first night in Mumbai.About Pihu's laugh that cracked when she wasn't joking.About Nandini's silence that held entire rooms.About Meher's strength that had been trained before it had been chosen.
About girls who became women before anyone asked if they were ready.
The words came slowly.
Then faster.
By evening, she had an outline.
A small concept.
A student-run digital space.
Stories. Conversations. Anonymous submissions. Youth issues without packaging.
No filters.
No performances.
Just voices.
She showed it to Nandini first.
Nandini read quietly, turning pages like they mattered.
"This isn't content," she said. "This is a platform."
Then to Pihu.
Pihu read one page, then another.
Then sat back. "Okay. This is not a hobby. This is a beginning."
Then to Meher.
Meher scanned it once.
Twice.
Then looked up. "I can help you build this."
Ananya blinked. "How?"
Meher smiled faintly. "I know how structures work. And how they fail. Let's build one that doesn't."
That night, Room 407 didn't watch a movie.
They planned.
Names.Formats.Boundaries.Purposes.
When they finally lay down, Ananya felt something unfamiliar.
Not hope.
Ownership.