Okay, so if you're reading this... hi, I guess?
I'm Lunch Box. And no—not the actual tiffin. That's a whole different story, and honestly, she gets more action than me. I'm the diary. The one Riya Sharma scribbles in at 2 a.m. when she can't sleep, or during boring lectures when Professor Sharma's voice could put a caffeinated squirrel into a coma.
People see her and think they've got her figured out. "Oh, that's the chubby girl, right? The loud one?"
Yeah. Sure. That's all she is.
Except I know better. I get the unfiltered version—the one where she cries over stupid things, laughs until she snorts, and eats Kurkure in bed while ranting about her cousin. I see everything. The good, the messy, the "why did I write that oh god."
So let me introduce you to the circus. The people who orbit around Riya like she's the sun, even though half the time she doesn't even realize it.
*Megha (The Fashion Diva Slash Pain in the Ass)
Megha. God. Where do I even start?
This girl walks like someone's filming her for a music video. Hair flipping, hips swaying, eyeliner sharp enough to perform surgery. Her phone is basically an extension of her hand at this point—always angled, always ready for the next Reel.
She's Riya's best friend, which means two things:
1.She's allowed to roast Riya's fashion choices daily.
2.She will absolutely steal Riya's last packet of chips without asking.
"Riya, ditch the hoodie and wear a crop top for once!" she'll say, five minutes before raiding Riya's tiffin like a raccoon in a dumpster.
Their friendship is weird. Riya supplies snacks. Megha supplies sass and unsolicited makeovers. I'm not sure it's fair, but Riya doesn't seem to mind.
*Kabir (The Quiet Weirdo Who Draws Too Much)
Kabir barely talks. Like, barely. You'd think he was mute if you didn't occasionally catch him muttering to himself while sketching.
And he sketches everything. The math teacher. The canteen uncle. That one broken ceiling fan that's been spinning lopsided since 2019.
But mostly? He draws Riya.
I've seen his sketchbook. (Riya left it open once during lunch, don't judge me for peeking.) There are at least a dozen versions of her face in there—laughing, distracted, mid-bite of a samosa. Her messy ponytail. Her round cheeks.
Is it cute? Creepy? Honestly, I can't decide. Depends on the day and whether he's being obvious about it.
*Nisha Sharma (The Cousin Who Must Be Stopped)
Every hero needs a villain, right? Riya's is her cousin Nisha.
Tall. Slim. Selfie-ready at all times. Born with that "perfect nose" every auntie at family functions won't shut up about. You know the type.
Family gatherings are basically the Nisha Sharma Admiration Hour, with guest appearances by Riya trying not to scream into a gulab jamun.
"Look how fit Nisha is!"
"She's so confident!"
"Why can't you be more like her?"
And Riya? She smiles. Nods. Eats another sweet.
Then later, she comes to me and writes things I probably shouldn't repeat. Let's just say if jealousy had a face, it'd look like Nisha flipping her hair for the 100th time that day.
*Varun (Chaos in Human Form)
If there's one person who makes Riya want to commit violence on a daily basis, it's Varun.
This boy is chaos. He steals her phone, changes her contacts to "Motu" and "Drama Queen," then laughs so hard he chokes on bhujia. He hides her stuff. He eats her food. He exists purely to make her life difficult.
But here's the thing—
When some kid in tuition called Riya "golgappa" last year, Varun punched him. Just... straight up decked him. No hesitation.
Riya yelled at him for days. Said he was reckless, stupid, embarrassing.
But I saw her smile when she thought no one was looking.
*Aunt Sunita (The Only Adult Who Matters)
If you follow the smell of frying samosas in Riya's neighborhood, you'll end up at Aunt Sunita's door.
This woman is a legend. Her samosas are crispier than life itself, her pakoras fluffier than Megha's ego, and her jalebis—god, her jalebis—could cure depression.
Whenever Riya fights with her mom (which is often), guess where she goes? Straight to Aunt Sunita's kitchen, where the golden rule is: No one leaves without extra food packed in foil.
Honestly, if world peace were negotiated over samosas, Aunt Sunita would've solved everything by now.
*Professor Sharma (The Human Sleeping Pill)
Riya's dad.
Also, her history teacher.
Also, the reason half the class has mastered the art of sleeping with their eyes open.
This man could make a zombie apocalypse sound boring. I'm talking monotone, zero expression, the energy of a dial-up internet connection. His lectures are so dull that even I feel sleepy, and I'm a diary. I don't have a brain.
Riya and her friends survive his classes with contraband chips, whispered jokes, and doodles in the margins of their notebooks.
Once, Riya wrote: "Dear Lunch Box, if I die of boredom, blame Professor Sharma."
Honestly? Valid.
*Naina (Little Miss Perfect)
Every class has one. That girl with the color-coded notes, the polished shoes, the hand already raised before the teacher finishes the question.
That's Naina.
She's nice, technically. Polite. "Riya, maybe you should study more instead of eating chips in class."
But I know the truth.
Deep down, Naina's jealous. She's jealous that Riya can be loud and messy and still have people love her. Naina gets applause at award ceremonies. Riya gets applause just for existing.
And that? That stings.
*Mr. & Mrs. Sharma (The Parental Units)
Riya's mom is the classic Indian mom. Feeds you. Nags you. Feeds you while nagging you.
Every morning: "Beta, when are you starting that diet?"
Also every morning: fries parathas in a bathtub of butter.
The contradiction is real. The parathas are delicious. We've all accepted this.
Riya's dad is quieter. An accountant. Loves balance sheets more than people. But when Riya cracks a joke at dinner, he hides his smile behind the newspaper.
That's his way of saying:I'm proud of you, kid.
Okay, so that's the supporting cast. The cousins, the frenemies, the snack dealers, the artists who won't stop staring.
But now?
Now let me tell you about her.
The girl who gives me purpose. Who spills her secrets on my pages at 3 a.m., who doodles hearts and fries in my margins, who sometimes cries and sometimes laughs so hard she can't breathe.
Her name's Riya Sharma.
And people—god, people are so stupid about her.
"Oh, she's the chubby one."
Yeah. And?
That's not her whole story. That's not even the beginning of her story.
Let me tell you what I see.
Riya's not Instagram-perfect. She's not the girl in magazine ads with the tiny waist and the glowing skin. She's real. Messy. Human.
Her hair's always escaping. Doesn't matter if she uses a clip, a rubber band, or actual witchcraft—strands always fall across her forehead by third period. It's like her hair has a mind of its own. Rebellious. Just like her.
Her eyes are big. Brown. The kind that give away everything she's feeling, even when she's trying to play it cool. They light up when Megha says something dumb. They narrow when Naina starts showing off. And when Aunt Sunita brings samosas? They go soft. Like she's seeing home.
Her cheeks are round. Soft. They turn pink when she's embarrassed or laughing too hard. Kabir sketched them once, and I swear even his pencil looked flustered.
And her smile—
God, her smile is huge. The kind that makes you forgive her for eating the last aloo tikki. The kind that fills a room.
She's not skinny. I'm not going to pretend she is. But her body tells stories—her mom's ladoos during exam week, late-night Maggi with Varun on the terrace, Aunt Sunita's samosas every Friday. Every curve is a memory. A moment. A choice to enjoy life instead of shrinking herself for people who don't matter.
And clothes? Megha's constantly trying to "fix" her. Crop tops, fitted jeans, the whole deal. But Riya lives in oversized hoodies and beat-up sneakers. Comfort over style. Every time.
And somehow? She still looks better than half the girls who spend an hour planning their outfit.
People call her "normal."
But Kabir draws her like she's art. Naina watches her like she's a threat. Varun fights for her like she's worth protecting.
Normal girls don't do that.
Riya's not loud because she wants attention. She's loud because she's alive. Fully, messily, unapologetically alive. And people feel that. Even if they don't have the words for it.
I see it all. Every tear she hides. Every laugh that's too loud. Every moment she doubts herself, and every moment she doesn't.
And I'm telling you—
Riya Sharma is extraordinary.
Not because she's perfect. Because she's real.
So yeah. That's the crew. The family, the frenemies, the snack dealers, the quiet boy with the sketchbook.
They think they know her.
But me? I know all of her. The public version and the private one. The confident girl in the cafeteria and the one who writes, "Am I too much?" at 2 a.m.
And I'm not going anywhere. I'm her diary. Her vault. Her witness.
Page after page.Secret after secret.
Until she finally sees herself the way I do.