Volume 6 Numbers 1 and 2 | Apr-Sept 2026

The One Who Feels the In-Betweens

Story idea by Samriddhi Mishra | Story by Cordelia B. Francis | Art by Haasini Casukhela

 

Samriddhi’s pitch:

When I was a kid, I had this really strange thing I could do. It didn’t feel like some flashy comic book superpower, more like a secret, quiet sense I carried around. Honestly, for a long time, I just figured I was “too sensitive,” you know? That it was a flaw rather than anything special.

I could just feel the things people weren’t saying – not just the heavy sadness they tried to bury, but also the quiet happiness they didn’t quite know how to show. No lightning, no glowing eyes, just… a deep, quiet knowing that settled in my chest.

If someone was putting on a brave face, I’d notice the subtle ache behind their laugh. But weirdly, I’d also sense that tiny spark of hope they were still clinging to. If a friend was silently struggling with grief, I’d feel that lump in my throat before they ever uttered a word – but then, I’d also feel the simple comfort they found just by me sitting nearby.

I started seeing how joy, too, loves to hide in the most unexpected corners:

Like the quick, bright flicker in someone’s eyes when they mentioned their pet, even on a hard day.

Or the way a teacher’s voice would suddenly soften, almost melt, when they shared a story from their own childhood.

And the way music would just make someone’s foot tap, even if their face stayed perfectly still and serious.

It was like tuning into this invisible frequency that most people just walked right past. I never needed to be told someone was hurting or healing; I just… felt it. That quiet joy, it was like the warmth of the morning sun creeping in after a really long, dark night.

But I’ve really learned that sensitivity isn’t a weakness at all. It’s actually a superpower. And it turns out, that sensitivity is exactly what helps me truly connect with people. It’s not about big, dramatic rescues or grand speeches. Instead, it’s all in the little things that genuinely matter – a gentle nudge when someone seems lost, a quiet smile that says “I see you” when their eyes meet mine and they just need it, or even just passing a silly little note under the desk.

Grief, it has this way of teaching me depth, grounding me. Joy, on the other hand, reminds me of lightness, of soaring.

But my real power, I think, is in being able to hold both of those feelings, together, at the same time. It’s almost like being a quiet bridge between what people are carrying inside and what they’re truly afraid to show the world.

It’s not about being able to fix everything or everyone. It’s just about being present enough to quietly say, “I feel it too. And you’re absolutely not alone in this.” And sometimes, just sometimes, that’s genuinely all it takes for someone to start feeling okay again. That’s my way of trying to make the world a bit better – not louder, not faster, but definitely more genuine, a little more real.