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How Life Humbles You

I think life humbles you most through the things you prayed for.

Not the things you didn’t care about.

The things you wanted so badly that you built a whole future around them.

The things you worked for until you forgot what it felt like to rest. The things you prayed for at night. The things you convinced yourself would make everything worth it.

For me, it was an exam.

I worked for it. I gave it everything I had. I carried the pressure, the expectations, the fear, the exhaustion. I kept telling myself that if I could just get through this, if I could just make it, all of it would have been worth it.

And then life humbled me there.

At the very place where I thought I would finally prove myself.

It is a strange kind of pain when you give something your everything and still don’t get to have it.

Because then you don’t just lose the result.

You lose the future you had quietly imagined around it.

You lose the version of yourself who had already pictured what came next.

And for a moment, you don’t know what to do with yourself.

You wonder who you are when the thing you worked so hard for isn’t yours anymore.

What are you without the achievement?

Without the acceptance letter?

Without the marks?

Without the title?

Without the thing you thought would finally make you feel like you were enough?

I think that is where life truly humbles you.

It strips away the things you use to introduce yourself to the world and leaves you alone with yourself.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe life doesn’t take things away because you weren’t worthy of them.

Maybe sometimes it takes them away because you have forgotten that you are still someone without them.

I wish I could say I understood this immediately.

I didn’t.

It hurt.

It still does, sometimes.

There is a particular kind of grief in watching something you prayed for become something you have to let go of.

But somewhere between the disappointment and the silence that followed, I realized something.

I am still here.

The exam is over.

The result exists somewhere outside of me.

The plan changed.

But I didn’t disappear with it.

I am still the person who woke up every morning and tried.

Still the person who kept studying when it was difficult.

Still the person who hoped.

Still the person who dreamed.

Still the person who can begin again.

And perhaps that is what life was trying to show me all along.

That I am not the things I accomplish.

I am not the things I fail at.

I am not one examination.

I am not one rejection.

I am not the version of my life that didn’t happen.

I am the person who remains when all of those things are taken away.

And maybe there is something beautiful about being reduced to nothing and discovering that nothing was never really nothing.

There was still me.

And that has to count for something.

Because a loser isn’t someone who fails.

A loser is someone who decides they are finished.

So I will try again.

Not because it didn’t hurt.

It did.

Not because I wasn’t disappointed.

I was.

But because I refuse to let one failure become the ending of a story I am still writing.

Maybe life humbled me.

Maybe it took the thing I wanted most and held it just out of reach.

Maybe it wanted me to understand that I could lose something I loved and still love myself afterwards.

And maybe one day, when I finally get where I’m going, I’ll look back at this version of myself with tenderness.

I’ll remember how badly I wanted it.

How much I cried over it.

How certain I was that losing it meant losing something inside myself.

And I’ll smile because I will know what I know now:

Life can take away what you worked for.

It can take away what you prayed for.

It can take away the future you imagined.

But it cannot take away the person who keeps getting back up.

So I’ll try again.

And this time, I won’t be trying to prove that I am worthy.

I’ll be trying because I still have dreams.

And because I am still here.

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The Paradox of a Liar

We grow up believing that truth has an unfair advantage.

We are told that lies are temporary, that they crumble under the weight of evidence, and that honesty, however delayed, always finds its way back into the light. It is one of the earliest lessons we are taught: tell the truth, because the truth always wins.

But life has a strange way of rewriting lessons we thought were absolute.

Sometimes, the truth arrives with witnesses, messages, photographs, conversations, and undeniable evidence. It stands quietly in the middle of the room, asking for nothing more than to be acknowledged.

And still, the lie survives.

Not because it is more convincing. Not because it is supported by facts. But because human beings are rarely persuaded by facts alone.

That is the paradox I keep returning to.

The philosopher’s liar says, “This statement is false.” It traps logic in an endless circle. If the sentence is true, then it must be false. If it is false, then it must be true. There is no comfortable answer.

Real life offers us a different paradox.

What happens when someone continues to lie even after being confronted with the truth?

What happens when every contradiction is met with another excuse? When every question is answered with another story? When evidence is dismissed, memories are rewritten, and accountability becomes someone else’s responsibility?

The paradox is no longer about language.

It becomes about people.

Perhaps the most fascinating thing about lying is that it is rarely just about protecting the truth. More often, it is about protecting an identity.

Admitting a lie requires admitting that we were wrong.

It requires accepting responsibility, facing disappointment, apologizing, and allowing others to see us as flawed.

For some people, that price feels heavier than the lie itself.

So the lie grows.

It changes shape.

It adapts.

It learns to survive.

The first lie is told to avoid consequences.

The second lie is told to protect the first.

The third is told because turning back has become impossible.

Eventually, the lie becomes less about deception and more about self-preservation.

Then something even stranger happens.

When the facts become impossible to deny, the conversation quietly changes.

No longer is it about what happened.

It becomes about how unfair it feels to be confronted.

The focus shifts from actions to emotions.

From accountability to sympathy.

From truth to perception.

The person who caused the hurt begins to speak as though they are the one who has been hurt the most.

Victimhood becomes a refuge.

Not always because the pain is fake, but because it redirects attention. It changes the question from “Did this happen?” to “Why are you being so hard on me?”

And suddenly, the original issue disappears beneath layers of guilt, emotion, and distraction.

It is one of the oldest diversions in human interaction.

Not because it always works.

But because it often does.

There is another uncomfortable truth we rarely discuss.

Human beings do not judge honesty objectively.

We like to believe we do.

We tell ourselves that we evaluate evidence carefully and arrive at rational conclusions.

But psychology tells us otherwise.

We are influenced by confidence.

By charisma.

By familiarity.

By popularity.

By the stories we already want to believe.

Sometimes, people who are seen as attractive, charming, or socially admired receive more benefit of the doubt than others. That doesn’t mean appearance determines honesty, nor does it mean every attractive person is believed over everyone else. But our perceptions can be shaped by first impressions in ways we don’t always notice.

Perhaps that is why some lies survive despite overwhelming evidence.

Not because truth is weak.

But because perception is powerful.

The frightening thing about deception is not that people lie.

Everyone lies.

Small lies.

Polite lies.

Protective lies.

Self-serving lies.

The frightening part is how easily a lie can become someone’s reality if repeating it feels safer than admitting the truth.

After enough repetitions, the liar may no longer distinguish between what happened and what they wish had happened.

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Memory bends.

Stories evolve.

The past is rewritten.

The lie no longer feels like an act.

It becomes an identity.

Yet there is another side to this paradox.

Truth is patient.

Unlike lies, it does not need constant revision.

It does not depend on perfect memory.

It does not require rehearsed explanations or carefully constructed narratives.

The truth simply exists.

Quietly.

Unchanged.

Whether people choose to believe it or not.

Perhaps that is why truth often feels lonely.

It asks for nothing except recognition.

A lie demands constant attention.

It must be defended.

Protected.

Repeated.

Reinvented.

And still, despite all that effort, it remains fragile.

One unanswered question.

One forgotten detail.

One contradiction.

Sometimes that is all it takes.

The greatest tragedy is not that lies exist.

The greatest tragedy is that people often mistake confidence for honesty and sympathy for innocence. We are quick to judge the tone of a response before we examine the substance of what is being said.

Maybe that is the real paradox of a liar.

Not that they lie.

Not even that they continue to lie when the truth is standing in front of them.

The real paradox is that truth is often expected to prove itself, while a lie only needs someone willing to believe it.

And perhaps the hardest lesson is this:

Truth does not always win immediately.

Sometimes it loses conversations.

Sometimes it loses friendships.

Sometimes it loses public opinion.

But unlike a lie, it never has to remember what it said yesterday.

In the end, that may be its greatest strength.

The paradox of a liar is not simply that they speak falsehoods.

It is that every lie asks two questions at once.

“Can I escape accountability?”

And perhaps more importantly-

“Who is willing to believe me over the truth?”

The Place I Keep Running From

My mind has been loud lately.

Not the kind of loud that rattles windows
or wakes the neighbors.
The kind that settles beneath your skin,
that turns ordinary moments into interrogations,
that makes peace feel suspicious.

I wake up tired,
even after sleeping.
I carry exhaustion the way some people carry keys-
always in my pocket,
always within reach.

Every conversation becomes a replay.
Every glance becomes a question.
Every silence feels like evidence
for a crime I can’t remember committing.

Sometimes paranoia arrives quietly.

It doesn’t kick down the door.
It slips in like a familiar guest,
takes a seat beside me,
and begins telling stories.

It says:
Did you see the way they looked at you?
They’re losing interest.
You’re falling behind.
You’re not enough.

And the worst part is
it speaks in my own voice.

So I believe it.

I let it sit at my table.
I let it follow me through crowded streets,
through classrooms,
through nights that stretch longer than they should.

I’ve spent years trying to outrun it.

I’ve imagined disappearing.
Starting over somewhere nobody knows my name.
A different city.
A different life.
A different version of myself.

I used to think healing looked like escape.

I thought if I could just leave,
if I could put enough distance between myself
and everything that hurt,
I would finally be free.

But every road led to the same destination.

Me.

No matter how far I walked,
my thoughts packed their bags too.

They sat beside me on buses.
They stared back from mirrors.
They waited for me in empty rooms.

You cannot outrun a house
that has been built inside your own mind.

And that realization terrified me.

Because if running isn’t the answer,
then what is?

What do you do
when the thing chasing you
wears your face?

What do you do
when the battlefield
exists entirely beneath your skin?

For a long time,
I fought.

I argued with every thought.
I treated my mind like an enemy territory.
Every day was a war.
Every night another casualty.

But wars are exhausting.

Eventually,
you grow tired of surviving.

You begin wanting something gentler.

So I stopped running for a moment.

Not because I was brave.
Not because I had all the answers.

I stopped because I was tired.

And in that stillness,
something unexpected happened.

The storm didn’t disappear.

The anxiety remained.
The fear remained.
The questions remained.

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But for the first time,
I listened.

Not to the panic.
Not to the catastrophes.

To the hurt beneath them.

Because fear is rarely just fear.

Sometimes it’s loneliness
wearing a disguise.

Sometimes it’s grief
that never got the chance to speak.

Sometimes it’s a younger version of yourself
still standing in an old wound,
waiting to be noticed.

The mind can be cruel,
but it can also be wounded.

And wounded things don’t always need punishment.

Sometimes they need understanding.

So now,
when the noise returns,
I try not to run immediately.

I sit with it.

I let the thoughts arrive.
I let them speak.
I let them pass.

Some days I fail.

Some days the darkness wins.
Some days I believe every terrible thing
my mind tells me.

But some days,
I remember that thoughts are weather.

Storms feel endless
while you’re standing beneath them.

Yet no storm has ever lasted forever.

And maybe healing isn’t becoming fearless.

Maybe healing is learning
that you can survive the rain.

Maybe peace isn’t the absence of chaos.

Maybe peace is sitting beside chaos
without letting it become your identity.

So if my mind is a maze,
I no longer search desperately for the exit.

I walk its corridors slowly.

I learn its corners.
I memorize its shadows.

Because somewhere inside this tangled place,
beneath the fear,
beneath the noise,
beneath the endless exhaustion,

there is still a version of me
waiting patiently to be found.

And perhaps that is where every journey begins-

not by running away,

but by finally turning around
and facing the place
we’ve been running from all along.

PHOTO CREDIT ; PINTEREST

The Number Everyone Blocks

Today I received a phone call

from a number everyone blocks.

I answered.

Death spoke like someone

tired of being misunderstood-

said people curse his name,

call him a thief,

a home-wrecker,

the final crime scene.

I listened.

He said he spends most of his days

arriving where he was never invited,

collecting what was already broken,

wearing the blame

for disasters that began long before him.

We talked about life-

how it starves people slowly,

not always of food,

but of wonder,

of certainty,

of the belief that tomorrow

might be kinder than today.

How it teaches hope like a lesson

and then punishes you for learning it too well.

We talked about prayers

that arrive too late,

about promises that dissolve

the moment you trust them,

about highs that demand payment,

and lows that never seem satisfied.

Death was quiet for a while.

Then he asked me why people fear him

more than the things that make them wish

he would hurry.

I didn’t have an answer.

So we spoke about loneliness instead-

the kind that sits beside you

in crowded rooms,

the kind that memorizes your routines,

the kind that knows your name

better than your friends do.

We spoke about grief.

Death said grief was never his invention.

It was love’s shadow,

the receipt life hands you

for having cared.

We spoke about time-

that patient pickpocket

that steals in broad daylight.

The faces it changes.

The dreams it outgrows.

The people it turns into strangers.

By then, the call felt less like a warning

and more like a confession.

Death didn’t rush me.

Didn’t threaten.

Didn’t beg.

He simply sounded exhausted.

Like a janitor blamed

for a building already on fire.

Like a witness dragged into court

for a crime he didn’t commit.

Before hanging up,

he told me something strange.

“People spend their whole lives

running from me,” he said,

“while walking willingly

into everything that hurts them.”

Then the line went silent.

I sat there for a long time,

phone still in my hand,

listening to the absence.

By the time the call ended,

I understood:

Death is only the witness.

The cleaner.

The one blamed for the mess.

Life is the violence.

Life is the hand

that pushes you to the edge

and then gasps

when you fall.

And somehow,

we still wake up every morning

and call it a gift.

Am I gonna fail again?

Not for the first time, not even the second.

Just another silent fall disguised as a quiet effort.

Am I gonna fail again?

Not in love - that wound has healed into a memory -

but in life itself.

In the fragile towers of hope I built too high.

In the dreams that outgrew their meaning.

In the ambitions that once burned bright,

but now flicker like candlelight on the edge of breath.

Sometimes I think failure is not the opposite of living -

it is living.

We rise, we stumble, we run out of names for the ache,

so we call it resilience.

We tell ourselves it’s not over yet,

that maybe if we keep running,

the sky will change its mind.

But how do I know when to stop?

When to call it the end?

How do you tell the difference between persistence

and punishment?

They say sunsets mark closure -

but did I tell you my life is at Svalbard?

The sun doesn’t set there.

It lingers in a half-light that never fades,

a day that never ends.

And I keep running beneath it,

trying to chase an ending that refuses to come.

Maybe that’s my curse -

to always keep trying, even when the horizon forgets me.

Maybe I’ll never win.

Maybe this rain will never stop.

But maybe that’s the point.

Because sometimes the beauty isn’t in the triumph,

but in the trembling -

the way the heart keeps pulsing

even when the world stays still.

The way we keep walking

even when we’ve forgotten why.

So, am I gonna fail again?

Maybe.

But I’ll still call it a beginning

each time I fall.

I Missed My Train

I wasn’t supposed to be late.

I had a plan, a schedule, a path I thought I understood.

But I was

I missed it.

And for a moment, the world didn’t pause for me.

It moved on - the people, the noise, the hum of life -

while I stood still,

rooted to the platform of my own lateness,

watching what I thought I would catch disappear into the distance.

At first, I felt the familiar weight of failure.

The kind that presses into your chest,

that makes your breath shallow,

that makes your hands tremble with small, quiet frustration.

I told myself I’d ruined something.

I’d lost my chance.

But as the minutes stretched,

and the silence of waiting filled the space around me,

I began to notice things I hadn’t before.

The way the sunlight hit the tracks,

the tiny sparks danced on the rails like forgotten fire.

The smell of rain on concrete.

The soft murmur of strangers,

each moving to their own rhythms,

each caught in their own invisible trains.

I realised then that maybe this wasn’t about being late.

Maybe it was about being here - fully, quietly, painfully here -

in the space between what I had wanted

and what I could not have.

Now, I wait for the next one.

Maybe it will take me somewhere else.

Somewhere unplanned.

Somewhere unfamiliar.

Somewhere necessary.

Perhaps the journey will be longer than the one I missed.

Perhaps it will be harder.

Perhaps I will have to sit in stillness,

watching the landscape pass,

not knowing the end,

not knowing the people who will pass by,

not knowing what I might lose

or gain along the way.

And yet, in the waiting, there is a kind of lesson.

A quiet, persistent whisper that says:

You cannot always control the timing,

You cannot always catch what you think you need,

and yet you will arrive somewhere.

It may not be where you planned.

It may not look like what you imagined.

But it will be yours.

I used to think life was about schedules.

About catching the right train,

making the right choices,

arriving on time.

I thought mistakes were failures.

I thought detours were punishments.

But maybe they are not.

Maybe these are the ways life teaches patience.

Maybe they are the ways life shows us that beauty exists in the unplanned.

Maybe they are the way we learn to see, to notice, to breathe,

to feel the quiet spaces we often overlook

when we are too busy racing.

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So now, I wait.

I let the seconds into minutes, the minutes into hours.

I notice the hum of the tracks beneath my feet,

the changing sky above me,

the small moments that make up the spaces between departures.

I notice my own heart,

how it learns to beat slower,

how it learns to carry hope in silence.

And maybe, just maybe,

missing that first train

was not a mistake at all.

Maybe it was the only way

to understand that the journey itself -

the waiting, the watching, the not knowing -

was exactly what I needed.

Because sometimes, the places we are meant to go

are only visible from the platforms we are forced to wait on.

I Haven’t Had a Dream in a Long Time

But I sleep to see you once.

Lately, my nights have become quiet deserts -

no dreams, no faces,

no echoes of what used to be.

Just the heavy hum of sleep

that feels more like a pause than a rest.

People say dreams are a way the heart speaks

when the mind falls silent.

If that’s true,

then mine has gone mute.

I used to see you there -

not clearly, not like the old days.

You were always vague,

as if my memory painted you

with trembling hands,

afraid that remembering too much would hurt.

Sometimes you’d stand at the edge of a mist,

saying nothing,

and I’d wake up

with your silence caught in my throat.

The day would feel heavier,

like I carried the ghost of a half-remembered voice

in my pocket.

Now even that faint mercy has stopped.

No shadows of you.

No mistakes my mind can replay.

Just darkness.

The kind that stretches,

slow and endless,

until morning feels like an interruption.

I’ve tried sleeping in new ways -

changing pillows,

turning to the colder side of the bed,

leaving the curtains open so the moon can find me.

But still,

no trace of you.

Not even the echo of your laughter

that once slipped between dreams.

Maybe the heart forgets

how to build a doorway

to someone who’s no longer waiting behind it.

Maybe forgetting

is a quiet kind of survival.

And yet,

every night,

I close my eyes with the same quiet prayer:

let me make that mistake again.

Let me see you once -

even if it’s only in the blurred corners of a dream

that refuses to stay.

I will clean my room before I kill myself.

Not because it matters,

but because I want to leave behind a kind of order -

a quiet that smells like lavender and endings.

I’ll buy myself a fresh set of flowers,

let them bloom on my table,

pretending they’re for a guest who never arrives.

I’ll get treats for my cat,

because she deserves softness even if I don’t.

I’ll call an old friend,

ask about their life, their laughter, their new beginnings -

and never once mention my ending.

I’ll click pictures of the sky,

at dawn, at dusk, at every in-between,

to prove that beauty never waits.

I’ll buy candies and chocolates,

and let the sweetness melt into memory.

I’ll light my scented candles -

the ones I save for “special days” -

and watch the wax drown itself slowly.

I’ll collect stones from the garden,

for my stone box,

the one that knows more of me than most people do.

I’ll admire someone from afar,

trace the way his glasses rest on his nose,

how he never notices me,

and how that hurts less than it should.

Love you never will know.

But that’s okay.

Some things are meant to stay half-finished.

Then, when the metallic taste touches my tongue,

I’ll put the knife down -

watch it spin,

gleam,

and settle in the still air.

And maybe,

in that pause between thought and touch,

I’ll realize -

it wasn’t death I wanted,

just an ending that finally felt like peace.

I love you.

How do I say it without breaking?

Every time I speak,

your eyes are searching for someone else-

eyes that will never belong to me.

You talk about her

as if she were some trophy.

Love has four letters,

but yours has five.

So how do I tell you I love you?

How do I tell you I want to hold your hand-

hold it until it’s no longer cold,

cold from the weight of being unloved,

mistreated?

How do I tell you I want to hug you

until your soul melts into mine?

That I want to wake up next to you every day,

to be seen,

to be chosen,

to be loved

by you.

How do I tell you

I want to build a home with you?

A home we were both denied while growing up.

A home with no judgment at the dining table,

no slammed doors,

no chaos,

no anger.

Only warmth.

Only peace.

Only love.

Our love.

I want to take the anxiety from your chest,

unravel it,

and knit it into a muffler

you can carry around your neck-

a reminder that you are safe,

that you are not alone.

I want to wake up and choose you

every single day.

But how do I tell you I love you,

when I am not her?

There’s a pain stuck in my throat.

It’s been there for as long as I can remember.

It’s not like the fishbone my mother once pulled from my dinner plate-

that one was visible, tangible, easy for her to take away.

This one, she could never see, never sense, never remove.

I was small when it began.

Feet not touching the ground when I sat,

hands still smelling faintly of sand from the frontyard.

I didn’t know what adolescence was-

only that the house could be unbearably quiet,

or unbearably loud.

Both hurt in their own way.

I remember the first time I realised my mother’s eyes were always tired.

The first time I noticed my father’s voice felt far away,

even when he stood in front of me.

That’s when I understood

love could exist and still feel absent.

Lately, I’ve been drifting.

It feels like sinking into the deep end of a pool,

no one watching, no one knowing I’m under.

The waves ocean high-crash over me.

I am a child again,

mouth shut tight in fear that opening it will let the water in.

Some days I think I was born tired.

That this hollow ache is permanent.

When lovers look, they don’t really see me.

They look at her-

the her that is always someone else.

And I wonder if I’m losing myself

for four fragile letters: LOVE.

I was the youngest in the family,

but my hands were full before I could even spell “grief.”

I carried my mother’s sadness,

held together the jagged pieces of home,

while everyone pretended everything was fine.

I’ve been hungry for love my whole life.

Starving for it.

But it was taken from me and replaced with adulthood I never asked for-

the kind where you swallow your tears

and smile like you’re fine.

I searched for my father’s love in the arms of men,

my mother’s love in people older than me-

but I never found the kind of love that lets you rest.

So now I walk carefully,

as though every step is over a landmine.

I’ve done this my whole life-

avoiding explosions I never caused,

dodging the unexpected.

I have always been at war.

Not with the world,

but with the weight of being alive.

And so I fight.

Just to survive another day.

These past few days have been brutally challenging.

I wake up without the energy to move,

but I drag myself out of bed

I can't show people I'm struggling,

You wouldn’t believe how I stare into the mirror and fail to recognise my own brown eyes.

They haven’t always been like this.

I overthink apologies until they rot in my head.

No matter what I eat, the guilt of not deserving it

knocks at my door again.

I wonder was I always this way?

Or have I just been suppressing emotions

that are too tangled to explain?

The pain in my chest is back-

the kind that feels like my ribs have snapped inwards.

It doesn’t leave,

not even when I’m surrounded by people.

I don’t know how to ask for help.

Maybe I don’t want to.

But what’s the point of writing all this?

It’s like screaming with my mouth shut.

And I can’t scream-

screaming was never in my blood.

So I stay quiet.

I carry it in a bag so heavy

my shoulders are bruised by its weight.

I keep myself busy,

but the thought-the knowing that something is wrong-

creeps back like rain seeping through a roof,

dripping into me,

until I am soaked in it.

I wish I could meet my younger self. For once, we would both arrive on time, because we both hate making people wait. I imagine the air warm but soft, with the faint smell of tea and dust swirling around us. She would already be there, sitting on the edge of a wooden bench, swinging her legs just above the ground. Her hair would catch the sunlight, her face lit with the kind of smile that hasn’t yet learned caution.

I would wear long sleeves so she wouldn’t be startled by the scars on my arms. The fabric would be heavy in the summer heat, but necessary. She would wear a dress in the lightest shade of pink - her favourite color - and I wouldn’t have the heart to tell her we no longer buy anything and everything pink. The color would glow against her skin, and for a moment I might envy her simplicity.

I’d tell her that I’ve moved out of our hometown for college. Not very far, but far enough that I don’t see mountains every time I wake up. I can almost hear her sharp inhale - the mountains have always been our comfort. I’d tell her I’m studying psychology, and she would tilt her head in confusion and say, “But I wanted to be a doctor” and I’d reply, “Life happened.”

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We would sit across from each other in a small cafe that smells faintly of coffee beans and rain-soaked pavement. She would lean forward on her elbows, staring into my dark brown eyes. Hers would be full of spark and light, while mine would feel dull and cold, carrying the weight of years she hasn’t yet lived. I’d drink coffee without sugar, letting the bitterness ground me, while she would pour the extra sugar packets from my plate into her soft drink, stirring until it turned syrupy sweet.

She would ask about Dida - our grandmother - and I’d tell her we lost her to cancer a few years ago. My voice would catch, but I’d force a small smile. Before she could process it or cry, she would change the subject abruptly and ask, “Do you drink butter tea ?” Our favourite. That was always her way - skipping from one thought to another like crossing stones in a river. I’d tell her I stopped drinking that.

She would ask if I still draw, and I’d tell her, “Yes, and we even get paid for it now.” Her eyes would widen in surprise, and she’d laugh in disbelief, the sound like wind chimes in a soft breeze. Then she’d ask about the person who ruined her childhood, and I’d take a deep breath before admitting that I still have nightmares about it - but I’m stronger now. My hand would twitch with the urge to reach out to her. She’d ask me about my boyfriend, and I’d tell her I blush for a person I haven’t even met yet.

She would admire my long hair and tell me how she always wanted to grow it out. I could almost feel her fingers itching to run through it. She’d ask, “Are we still the topper of our class?” and I’d say no, but that we’ve made peace with it. I’d tell her we have a cat now, and her eyes would glow with love - animals have always been our favourite. I’d picture her crouching down, calling softly to it, the way she always did with strays. Then she’d ask, “What do you do in your free time?” and I’d say I work for the community. She would repeat the words slowly, tasting their meaning, surprised to hear them from me.

At some point, she would look into my eyes and ask, “Why are you sad?” and I would have no answer. I’d tell her not to hide anything, and I’d tell her everything we are going to go through. She wouldn’t be afraid - she never has been. She would be full of questions, relentless in asking about the plans we made, the dreams we sketched in our notebooks, the people we thought we’d become.

In the end, I’d tell her to stay strong no matter what, and I’d give her the route back home - because unlike me, I don’t want her to be lost. I wish she makes it back home, no matter what the situation is.

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I keep thinking about running back home.

But the thought catches on something sharp

what if I don’t have one?

Everyone talks about home like it’s obvious.

Like it’s a birthright you carry in your pocket.

Walls.

Windows.

Ceilings.

Rooms that belong to you because your name is on some paper.

A front door that remembers the shape of your key.

The smell of something cooking before you even take your shoes off.

A corner of the house where sunlight always falls just right in the afternoon.

But for me, the word feels slippery.

It runs through my fingers like water I can’t quite cup.

It shifts when I try to hold it,

becoming something else entirely-

something softer, warmer-

less about walls and more about souls.

Sometimes I think it’s not a place at all.

Not somewhere you can return to

by train, by flight, or by following a pin on a map.

Sometimes I think it’s a person.

A living, breathing space you can exist inside without apology.

A heartbeat that syncs with yours like it’s always been waiting.

A laugh that curls around you like a blanket you didn’t know you needed.

Maybe home is a pair of dark eyes that never look away.

Eyes that see the parts of you you’ve tried to bury

and don’t flinch.

Eyes that hold you like they’ve known you all your life,

even if they’ve only just met you.

A shade of curly hair that matches your eyes,

falling over your forehead like it belongs there.

Arms that hold you without asking why you left in the first place.

Arms that don’t measure your absence in days,

but your presence in heartbeats.

Hands that rest on your back like they are holding a fragile truth,

one they would never dare to break.

A voice that says “you’re here now”

and makes it sound like a forever.

The kind of voice that reaches you even in the dark,

when you’re curled up in your own silence.

Maybe home isn’t a place I’ve lost.

Maybe it’s a place I haven’t found yet.

Or maybe it’s been walking beside me all along,

waiting for me to notice.

Maybe home is less about arriving,

and more about recognizing the moment you stop running.

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One day,

someone will know the moles on my body,

trace them with their fingers like constellations

only they can read.

They will know the scar on my knee from ninth grade-

the one I hid in every photograph-

and they will kiss it

as if it’s the softest truth they’ve ever been told.

They will hear the way my voice breaks

when I tell a story I care too much about.

Someone will know

exactly where to press their thumb

when my head aches,

when to rub my tummy

because I’ve crashed under the weight of pain,

when to hold me

without asking me to explain.

A tiny touch on my shoulder

when we weave through a crowded street,

a hand resting on my thigh

while we’re eating out-

gestures so small they almost disappear,

yet they will anchor me.

One day,

my body will not be a mystery.

It will be a map

someone learns by heart.

I watch the day bleed, Mother.

Drip by drip, hour by hour-

And I think something is wrong with me.

God was your answer.

You told me to seek Him.

And I did-

In silence. In screams. In scripture. In shadows.

Each day, I knelt until my knees went numb.

But, Mother-

The walls...

The walls lie.

They don’t shelter-

They speak.

They scream back at me

With voices of things not alive,

Of things that have died inside me.

And still, you say-"Just breathe."

But Mother-

The air refuses to stay.

They said it was just anxiety,

But I was clawing at my throat.

My friends watched-

Wide-eyed-

And still called me hysterical.

Insane.

Tell me,

Is it madness to break under invisible weight?

To choke on words never spoken?

I tried-

Tried to adjust my voice,

Make it palatable.

Tried to rescue myself

From a grief painted holy

By the hands of religion.

They told me grief is sacred.

So I wore red-

Red, because they said it meant purity, ritual, power.

But Mother-

Red is blood.

Red is warning.

Red is the color of poison

They dripped into me

While preaching salvation.

They said my rage was theatrical.

My silence, manipulative.

My fear-

Inconvenient.

But this isn’t the chaos I invented, Mother.

This is not hypothetical.

Look at the walls-

Don’t you see them?

They are stained-

Stained with handprints

That once clutched my neck,

Pressed my mouth shut,

Etched shame into my bones.

And then-

Then they looked me in the eye

And said:

"The door is your problem."

"You don’t know how to set boundaries."

Boundaries?

When I was never allowed to build a wall?

When the door was never mine to close?

Tell me, Mother-

Can’t you see?

Can’t you see that I’m drowning

In a room built by their comfort

And your denial?

Today, my heart feels this aching urge to call you.

To sit beside you.

To borrow a little time - like we used to.

But the moment I open my eyes… you’re gone.

You disappear just when I begin to feel you near.

Why does that always happen?

I find myself wishing

- just to hold your cold hands again.

Not for long.

Just once more.

Throughout the day, memories of us come and go,

each one weighing heavier than the last.

They ache -

but they also keep me close to you.

By night,

those memories return like old friends.

Tender.

Clear.

Almost too vivid.

And yet... they feel like dreams.

Beautiful ones.

But dreams aren't real.

And no matter how tightly I try to hold on -

you slip through.

Like smoke.

That’s when my heart freezes.

Goes quiet.

Numb.

The nights - they tell me the truth.

More than the days ever do.

I keep wishing this was just a story.

Something I could flip through,

skip the painful parts,

close the book when it hurts.

But this is real.

And tomorrow,

I’ll have to live through the next page.

And the one after that.

Sometimes, I hope these thoughts will just leave me.

That the ache might disappear.

But then I wonder…

If they go,

what will I have left?

Just silence.

And the echo of you.

The love has vanished.

Not suddenly,

but slowly - like sunlight slipping off the edge of evening.

It faded like the soft scent of perfume once worn every day,

now just a trace on an old scarf,

forgotten in the back of a drawer.

Like rose petals, dry and delicate,

pressed between pages of books no one reads anymore.

I sit alone,

away from everything.

The world moves on, but I stay still.

In this silence,

the only piece of you that remains

lives inside me - quiet,

familiar,

and unfinished.

We used to hold hands.

Now we only hold memories.

We carry them like photographs in our minds,

like words we wanted to say

but never did.

Emotions piled up,

left unsaid,

like letters never posted.

There is no anger.

No loud goodbyes.

Only this soft ache,

the kind that doesn’t shout

but stays with you anyway.

We hide what we feel.

Maybe because it’s easier that way.

Maybe because we don’t know what to do

with a love that has nowhere to go.

We're stuck in between -

not together, not apart.

Not strangers, not lovers.

A place where we can neither move forward

nor turn back.

And I ask myself - why?

Why can't we just forget?

Why does something that’s gone

still feel so close?

Maybe it was the first time

we felt something so deep.

And the truth is,

we didn’t know how to love like that.

Not then.

Maybe not even now.

I freeze – every single morning – right before waking up.

I lie there, still. Thoughts waving through my mind like restless tides.

Staring at the ceiling with tired eyes and a body that just won’t move.

And I wonder – what did I even sleep for?

What did the night even heal – if it healed anything at all?

There are days I want to feel –

really feel – without being told I need to “take something to help.”

Without being handed little capsules that promise balance

but steal the edges of everything.

I want the rawness. The chaos. The mess.

Even if it hurts. Even if it’s loud and confusing.

There are days when my heart races like it’s trying to escape my chest.

When every single emotion feels like electricity in my veins –

and I feel everything,

but it still doesn’t make me feel whole.

I feel like a spider under glass.

I can see everything –

but I can’t touch it.

Can’t move.

Can’t scream.

Hope flickers like a dying match –

and then fades,

and in the silence that follows, I start to rot.

Slowly. Silently. Piece by piece.

Maybe I don’t like my coffee black.

Maybe I don’t like silence as much as I thought I did.

Maybe I’m just tired of always being behind the camera,

capturing smiles that aren't mine,

watching life from behind the lens

while nobody ever turns the focus on me.

How long does this emotional winter last?

How long do I carry around this coldness in my chest?

How long until I thaw – or break?

And what do I even get from writing like this?

From sharing parts of myself that feel too soft to show?

Is it sympathy?

A few likes?

Someone saying it’s “too dramatic”?

Or maybe –

just maybe –

I hope someone reads this and quietly nods,

thinking, yeah… I feel that too.

Maybe I just want to feel seen

without someone trying to fix me.

Maybe I want to be understood

without being turned into a problem to solve.

My mind is full –

crowded with things I never say.

Things I want to say.

But don’t.

Because I’m always the listener.

The strong one.

The “therapist friend.”

The one who carries everyone else’s chaos

until I forget I have my own.

Each day becomes a guilt trip.

A to-do list left untouched.

A dream I didn’t chase.

A message I didn’t send.

A version of me I never got to be.

It hurts –

to be the one who clears the weeds

but never gets to grow.

To be the one who shines for others

while quietly burning out in the dark.

And some days –

some days are so cold,

I wear my smile like a mask made of frost.

I laugh. I reply. I show up.

But inside – it’s brittle.

Inside, I’m just hoping no one notices how hollow it all feels.

Some days –

some days are just heavy.

Too heavy.

And I carry them anyway.

To Death,

The day you were at my place, I didn’t know.

People call you names.

But I was just a kid.

You came first before I could even speak -

When I was only a breath in my mother’s arms.

They told me later.

And even though I don't remember,

I still feel the weight of your silence in the corners of home.

You returned when I was six.

The house smelled like incense.

I kept asking why Thama (my dad’s mother) wasn’t waking up.

You didn’t answer.

Only left us with rituals and a void.

Then you came again.

This time, I was old enough to understand.

I saw Dida (my mom’s mother),

Lying on the floor,

Wrapped in her silk saree,

Her hair thick with sindoor (vermilion).

She looked like sleep, but still.

You didn’t take just a person -

You took my childhood

You are awful.

And when you came for my friend,

I wasn’t even there.

But you called me.

And I cried

Until I could no longer feel my skin.

The air grew heavier.

And so did I.

You are awful.

But I wonder.

What do you do with them?

Do you offer peace?

Do you lift their suffering?

Or do you simply vanish it

Leaving us to carry what remains?

Why do you take them?

Do you trade their lives for a few more years of ours?

Because each time you visit,

Someone leaves -

And something in me does too.

Recently, I received a few custard apples as a gift. They weren’t ripe yet-still green, firm, and waiting. I wrapped them gently and placed them aside, telling myself I’d look at them in a day or two. But then, as it often happens, life got in the way. Little things piled up-classes, conversations, moments that felt important at the time. I kept meaning to check, but somehow, I didn’t.

When I finally remembered and unwrapped them, they had ripened too much. The skin had softened, the sweetness had turned sour, and some were spoiled. I felt a strange sadness- not because the fruit had gone bad, but because of what it represented.

They had been a gift. A simple gesture. Something that asked for a little care, a little attention. And I had left them in the dark.

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It reminded me of how we sometimes treat people. We receive their love, their time, their efforts. We wrap it up and tell ourselves we’ll get back to it when we’re ready. But sometimes, we forget. We wait too long. And by the time we return, things have changed. The sweetness has faded. The moment has passed.

There’s a quiet kind of intimacy in forgetting. Not the harsh kind-no anger, no shouting. Just silence. Just time slipping by unnoticed. And in that silence, something delicate is lost.

The custard apples didn’t last. And maybe that’s the point. Some things, some people, need to be noticed while they’re still waiting. Still willing. Still tender.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside as he loosened his tie. Another long day. The familiar smell of curry drifted in from the kitchen-it always made the place feel like home.

“Water?” she called out, her voice warm and soft, just like always.

He nodded. “Thanks, love.”

She handed him the glass of water with that same warm smile she always wore. He sipped slowly as he watched her prepare her favorite food again, which he only liked because of her.

Before he could sit, tiny footsteps padded down the hallway.

“Dada!” his daughter shouted, running toward him, just like their daily ritual.

He bent down just in time to catch her, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around. Laughter filled the room as he pressed a kiss to her little forehead.

“Missed me?”

“Lots!” the child grinned. “Play Legos now?”

“After dinner, Princess.”

The dining table was neatly set for three. His wife placed the last dish - aloo bhindi (potatoes fried with ladyfingers), his favorite. They sat together, laughing, passing plates, sharing bites. His daughter told him about a new cartoon character. His wife reminded him gently to stop working late. It was perfect.

The phone rang.

Buzzing on the table, breaking the rhythm. He stared at it. An unknown anxiety fluttered in his chest. He picked it up.

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His brother’s voice came through, low and cautious:

“Did you take your meds today?”

The laughter stopped. The table fell silent. He blinked.

His hands trembled as he looked around.

There was no one.

Just an untouched plate in front of him. A single glass. A child’s drawing on the fridge that hadn’t been updated in two years.

His brother’s voice grew gentle, almost pleading. “You need to stop hurting yourself like this.”

He hung up. Slowly. Quietly.

Then stood, walked to the cabinet,

and opened the pill bottle. He stared at it for a moment and closed it again.

He poured a glass of water.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said into the silence.

And sat at the table, smiling, as two shadows took their seats beside him.