It was afternoon. The golden rays entering through the window fell across my bed, while the not-so-cold breeze brushed against my face. The fan above hummed steadily, the only sound in the room. A tear slipped down my face once again, and I let it be, because I knew that no matter how hard I tried, it wouldn't stop now.
I closed my eyes, placed a pillow over myself, and hugged it tightly. These days, the pillow was the only thing that seemed to hold me together. Curling onto my side, I tried to remember something good. When I was small and only cared about marks and games, the days felt lighter.
I remembered the school on the hills and all the fun we had there. Racing from the top of the hill to the ground below, feeling that rush of adrenaline through our bodies, laughing without a care in the world. The jungle beside the school, the scrapes on our knees, and yet somehow, life felt better then.
There was a big jackfruit tree whose branches made the perfect house for our games. We sat there, played there, and spent entire afternoons lost in our little world. Back then, a few stickers and a bottle of Hajmola were enough to make the whole day feel special.
Back then, happiness was simple. It came with the blue toy car papa bought for me because Mamma was in hospital. He also bought a white one for didi and we were happy. We played with that for the entire day. There was a nani who cooked for us, stayed with us. Somedays I would ask papa to take me to visit mamma. The hospital corridors smelled of medicine and not so pretty place for a ten year old but I would demand to stay with her for the night because no matter what a home without maa feels empty. The food cooked by nani was good, and the rest of the work I used to do by my own but the empty feeling in the heart used to make my insides lonely.
And for once they would let me stay in the hospital. I shared the bed with mamma, my small height and thin body made it comfortable for both of us.
After some days my sister was born and that remains as the most beautiful memory of my childhood.
I used to tell every detail of my day to my parents, every laugh, every argument, every little thing. But as time passed, papa said I was more in wasting time telling those worthless things than focusing on my studies. That my brain should not hold anything about those worthless things while I am studying.
And so, I stopped telling them anything. I stopped sharing. When the world became harder, I learned to make myself smaller.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. The fan was still turning, the sunlight had shifted a little, and the room felt emptier than before. The memories had come and gone like a passing breeze, leaving behind a strange ache.
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