Why?

He was a very good student,smart, intelligent. Someone who had consistently performed well academically.

And yet, he was gone.

What made it even harder to understand was that we couldn't point to one obvious reason for what he did.

I remember sitting with the news and thinking:

What was happening inside him that none of us could see?

How many thoughts had he fought alone?

And perhaps the most painful question of all

When did the pain become so heavy that it swallowed the hope of another morning?

I don't know the answers and maybe no one ever will. But his death made me think about something I had been witnessing for years now.

A person can laugh with you, look perfectly fine from the outside, and still be fighting a battle that no one can see or feel.

Ok, let's come to the point.

We keep asking why did he chose to leave. But Perhaps we should also ask what made staying feel so unbearable.

And from my point of view, i don’t think we should point to one particular reason, maybe there were countless struggles, fears and disappointments hidden behind his smile, which as his friends and colleagues we failed to recognize.

We are only given one life, and somewhere along the way, we have made living incredibly complicated. We inherit rules for what a perfect life should look like.we have kept a definition for success. What career we should choose. We have even given a timeline to achieve these things. Society has already drawn the line. And somehow we are expected never to cross them.

There is often only one definition of success,one idea of what is right and anything except that is questioned, judged and treated as a mistake.

And I wonder we have forgotten that life was never meant to be a checklist we had to complete perfectly.

We are constantly surrounded by people who seem to be doing better than us. Someone who seems to have their entire life figured out while we are still trying to figure out our own. And slowly,without even realising it, we stop asking ourselves “Am I doing ok?” and we start asking, “Am I doing as well as them?” And that changes everything. Because comparison doesn't show us the complete picture. It makes us doubt ourselves, our worth and somewhere make us feel that we are not good enough. And sometimes even when we are doing good, that constant pressure of someone ahead of us ruins the joy of success and the path we travel to get there.For some people pressure can work as their driving force, maybe they can work well under pressure and actually touch their true potential but for someone already carrying pain inside them, struggling to make it, another comparison or another failure may have the potential to shatter their hope.

This is why I don't think we should see death as one incident which led to this huge step may be it's cummulation of all those struggles, all shattered hopes, all unseen hardships hidden under the mask of smile.

I don't know what was the reason behind his death but his death changed the way I look at people around me. We don't know other person, the person who is standing beside us talking to us normally, may be struggling internally. I guess we need to be more patient with people, we should recognise a person beyond his achievements,careers, apperances. Life was never supposed to be a rat race that we either win or loose. It is meant to be lived, lived to its fullest. And I guess that is the conversation we should be doing, not only about finding the reason why some decided to end his life, but about how to make this world secure enough to make people stay.We search for reasons hoping that it will make moving on easy but does it really ? Would it be easy to let go and move on if we knew the reason ?

I don’t think a reason can justify a loss.

It was Claire’s first week in Westfield. The apartment still carried the familiar scent of fresh paint and cardboard. Everything around her felt slightly out of place. She was still feeling like Westfield didn’t want her. She caught herself pausing for no particular reason, gripped by the strange feeling that she had forgotten something.

Rain had swallowed Westfield. Clouds formed a thick blanket across the sky, leaving the afternoon unusually dark. A relentless downpour blurred the world beyond her window. A loud clap of thunder echoed through the sky, making Claire flinch. She had been feeling a little uneasy today, as though something was about to happen. She had been in Westfield for only a few days. It was just another place on a list of places she'd lived over the past two years. No matter where she went, the feeling of an invisible weight always followed her.

The silence inside the apartment felt unnaturally heavy, until it was broken by the faint ringing sensation in her ears. She found herself listening to every sound around her, hoping it would silence the ringing. The muffled footsteps somewhere upstairs, the soft patter of rain against the window, anything to distract herself. She walked into her room. It was still almost empty. She unzipped the suitcase and folded the lid back. Neatly folded clothes, a few mystery thriller books, her stethoscope, untouched since the day she left residency, and small belongings stared back at her. Something in her chest folded inward. Her fingers drifted over the stethoscope, pausing as the cool steel met her skin. Engraved along the rim were the words:

Dr. Irene Claire

Without warning, the apartment melted into memory.

“Incoming trauma!”

The emergency doors flew open as paramedics rushed a stretcher into brightly lit trauma bay.

“Male, forty one. Road Traffic Accident. Blunt injury into the chest and the abdomen. Blood pressure sixty over forty. No obvious external head injury. C spine immobilised. GCS twelve.”

“Dr. Claire!”

She was already pulling on her gloves.

“No breath sounds on left. Trachea deviating towards right. Needle decompression right now! Two large bore IVs. Initiate Massive transfusion protocol. FAST scan.”

The room obeyed.

A violent crack of thunder shattered the silence.

The trauma bay vanished in an instant.

She closed the suitcase halfway, as though shutting away the memories with it. But the past wasn't finished with her. Tucked beneath her clothes was a small wooden photo frame.She carefully pulled it out.The photograph had faded with years, but her mother's smile remained as warm as ever. Little Claire stood pressed against her side, while grandmother watched the camera with the same gentle eyes Claire had inherited.

There wasn't a single photograph of her father.

There never had been.

She traced her mother's face with her thumb. A tear landed softly on the glass. She blinked away the tears and exhaled slowly.

“Not now, Claire. You don't have time for this,” she reminded herself.

She gently placed the frame on the bedside table, forcing herself to look away. Hoping to distract herself, she headed towards the kitchen. She reached for the coffee jar and scooped two generous spoonfuls into her favourite mug gifted to her by her grandmother when she left for medschool, and somehow, through every city and every difficult year that followed, it had never left her side. The rich, bitter aroma slowly filled the quiet apartment. Strong coffee had become a habit during her years as a medical resident,and even after leaving the hospital two years ago, she had never managed to let go of it. Cradling the warm mug between her hands, she stood by the window for a moment, hoping the silence outside would quiet the noise within. After taking one last sip, she placed the empty mug in the sink and returned to her room. She twisted her long dark brown hair into a bun. A few wisps escaped, framing her face. She tucked herself under a warm blanket and resumed the book she was halfway through.

A long thud broke the silence.

Dr. Claire looked up from her book.

A deep, rugged voice followed the knock.

“Is anyone home? I've got a letter for you.”

Dr. Claire went still.

“A letter? For me ?”

I've just moved here. Nobody could possibly know my address, she thought.

A pulse of heat crawled up the back of her neck.

She slowly went to open the door. As she reached it, she noticed a letter lying on the floor, halfway slipped through the bottom of the door.

She bent down and picked up the envelope. There was no sender's name, only her name written in worn handwriting. She opened the envelope. Calming herself, Claire slowly looked inside the envelope. She found a small brass key, dulled with age, along with a small handwritten note. Her fingers curled around the key. She went very still, the key cold and heavy in her palm. Whatever this was, some part of her already knew she shouldn't have opened it. She slowly unfolded the note and began to read.

“You remember my scream, don't you?”

She read the sentence once again, hoping the words might change. Her gaze locked onto the name. Her brows knitted together, her forehead creasing with strain as her widened eyes traced each letter again, refusing to believe what they were seeing.

Ryan Miller.

“No… it's impossible!” she whispered.

This couldn't be happening.

Ryan Miller was dead.

He died two years ago…

After lots of efforts, which failed, Finally, she took his hand and started tracing playful patterns on his palm,hoping this time he will give her some attention and finally play with her.

Instead,he pulled his hands away.

“Sit there. Don't disturb me.”

After listening to her father, the excitement on her face faded almost instantly.

She walked to the the other end of the seat and sat there in silence.

I only witnessed a few moments of their lives. Maybe he had a difficult day.Maybe later he played with her and gave all the attention She was craving for.

But I couldn't stop wondering!!

What if moments like these aren't rare?

What if they become memories?

The next morning, while I was walking, I saw a couple arguing. I don't know what started the fight or why they were fighting. But as I was walking,I overheard them and those words echoed in my mind.

“You have never done anything for me,how can you expect something from me?”

I tried to mind my own business and kept walking .

Sometimes our anger speaks louder than our hearts do ,without realizing that we don't mean any of that.

I came back and sat on my usual spot where I sit to do journaling. After thinking about it, I realized maybe it's not any one moment or instance that changes us, but it's the accumulation of all such small moments.

A comparison.

A joke that wasn't really a joke.

It's like a single drop of water that changes nothing ,but when the same drop falls over a hard rock again and again ,It has the potential to break the rock into two pieces.it's not that the water is stronger than the rock.its just that it never stopped.

Perhaps emotional bruises are created the same way.

They are created by the countless small moments that quietly tell someone that they are not enough,not worthy, not lovable until one day,they begin to actually believe it.

They have the power to change the way we see ourselves or make us feel less worthy.sometimes, because of all this, we may doubt the love that is freely given to us because somewhere along the way, we learned that love had conditions. And I guess healing an invisible bruise takes way more than just saying “I am sorry.”

Maybe it asks us to sit down with the people we love and say, “I have never meant for my wordsto become your burden.”

Telling them how much we love and care about them,I guess it's about spending more time understanding eachother rather than defending ourselves.

It's about showing patience and giving priority to our loved ones.

It's about choosing kindness over pride.

Because every word has the power to build someone…or slowly break them.

The deepest bruises don't live on our skin.

They live in our hearts.

I chose the perfect spot near a long glass window that overlooked the endlessly stretched mountains. Looking at them felt like staring at endless possibilities, as if they were quietly reminding me that there is always more beyond what we can see.

As I sipped my coffee and turned the page of the book I was reading, I noticed a little girl sitting alone in the corner of the café. She looked as though she was patiently waiting for someone... or maybe something.

When our eyes met, she gave me a warm smile. I smiled back and returned to my book.

The café had become almost empty by the time I reached the last page. As I closed the book, my eyes drifted toward the little girl again.

What is she still doing here all alone? I wondered.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I walked over to her. As I got closer, she greeted me with the same warm smile, almost as if she had been expecting me.

I smiled back and sat across from her.

I asked, "What are you doing here all by yourself?"

She looked at me and replied softly,

"I'm waiting for the right time."

Confused, I asked, "The right time? For what?"

She smiled and said,

"I'm waiting for the right time to chase my dreams."

For a moment, I didn't know what she meant.

So I asked again,

"And how long have you been waiting for the right time to come?"

This time, her smile looked tired.

"Since my whole life."

Her answer stayed with me.

I didn't know what to say.

I quietly got up and walked back to my table.

But as I turned around one last time...

She was gone.

I sat there for a while, staring at the empty chair.

Maybe she was never a little girl.

Maybe she was the part of me that had been waiting for the "perfect" moment to begin.

And maybe the right time isn't something we wait for.

Maybe it's something we create.

"Are you okay?"

The whole moment lasted only a few seconds.

But those few seconds said more than "I love you" ever could.

Love isn't always spoken. Sometimes, it's instinct.

We often describe love as care or affection. But I believe it's much more than that. It isn't just a feeling; it's a choice you make every single day. It's what happens when someone slowly becomes part of your life—your dreams, your fears, your future.

Not every love is the same. Some relationships are built on obsession. Some are filled with insecurity. Some make you question your own worth.

But then there is another kind of love. The kind that makes you feel safe. The kind that feels like home.

It's the kind where you don't have to hide who you are. Your voice is heard. Your opinions matter. You don't have to carry every burden alone, because you know someone is standing

Have you ever experienced the kind of love where both of you are busy chasing your dreams? Where life demands so much that some days there isn't enough time for long conversations or endless phone calls?

And yet you're never afraid. Because you know that no matter how exhausting the day has been, no matter how many battles each of you has fought, you'll always find your way back to each other.

When I say home, I'm not talking about a place. I'm talking about a person. Someone who becomes your peace after a chaotic day. Someone who reminds you they're proud of you—even on the days you struggle to be proud of yourself.

People often ask me what safe love feels like. For a long time, I didn't know how to answer. Then I realized it isn't one grand gesture. It's a collection of hundreds of little moments.

We were at a mall once, with his cousins. I stopped for a moment to look at something and fell a few steps behind everyone else. They all kept walking, but he noticed I wasn't beside him. He slowed down, waited for me, and when I reached him, he quietly held my hand before we continued walking together.

Most people probably wouldn't even notice a moment like that.

I did.

Because love isn't always found in extraordinary gestures. Sometimes it's hidden in the smallest decisions—to wait, to notice, to make sure the person you love never feels left behind.

Then there were the days before my exams. I would tell him I was overwhelmed, convinced I wasn't prepared enough. Without thinking twice, he would leave whatever he was doing just to come see me.

He simply came. He sat beside me. And somehow, everything felt lighter.

There were weeks he'd go quiet—buried in work, running on too little sleep, fighting battles he didn't always talk about. The replies would slow down. The calls would get shorter.

I used to panic in those silences. Now I don't. Because safe love doesn't need to be fed every hour to survive. It just needs to know that when the noise dies down, he'll come back.

So I stopped counting missed calls. I stopped measuring love in hours logged. I just held on to the knowing: however hard it gets, we find our way back to each other.

To me, that's what safe love is. It doesn't make the loudest promises. It quietly keeps them.

Sometimes it doesn't say "I love you." Sometimes it asks, "Have you eaten?"

People often think the greatest love is the one that gives you butterflies.

I think it's the one that gives you peace. The one that feels like home. The one that lets your heart rest.

If you're lucky enough to find a love like that, hold on to it. In a world that celebrates butterflies, peace is one of the rarest forms of love.