Nilah's paper planes

Nilah didn’t know how to make a paper plane. She’d seen others fold and flick them through the air at school, some flying straight, others spinning and nosediving. She’d tried once, copying someone quickly, but it had just flopped to the ground. So one quiet afternoon, she decided to learn properly.
ChatGPT_Image_Jun_8_2025_09_10_40_PM
ChatGPT_Image_Jun_8_2025_09_16_33_PM
She found a stack of rough paper in the corner — old printed bills Appa had kept for notes. She tore out a clean sheet and sat cross-legged on the verandah. The first few folds were wonky. One side longer than the other. She smoothed it out and tried again. After four tries, she got something that looked more or less like the ones she’d seen. It didn’t fly far. Just dipped and landed near the shoe rack. But it felt like a start.
She kept going. Some flew straight, some curved left, one got caught in a plant. She made a tiny one and a fat one and one with a pointed nose that went all the way to the chickens before flipping upside down. The garden became her runway. She marked out a “launch rock” to stand on and tried to beat her own distance. No one else was watching. She didn’t mind.
ChatGPT_Image_Jun_8_2025_09_22_41_PM
ChatGPT_Image_Jun_8_2025_09_32_02_PM
By evening, a few planes were scattered around — one under the bench, one on the slope near the tap, and one still resting in the curry leaf tree. Nilah didn’t collect them. She just looked at where they’d all landed, like tiny markers of the day. When Appa came out with tea, he asked, “Good day?” Nilah nodded. “Yeah. I finally got it to fly straight.” That was all. She sat beside him quietly, holding a fresh sheet of paper in her lap, already folding the next one.