The day we had been waiting for finally arrived, but I couldn’t muster any enthusiasm. She had made me wait for her boyfriend’s birthday as if it were my own.
She never told me what she was planning for his birthday, yet strangely, I still felt anxious. I knew her well. Sometimes she did things more showily than necessary. I wished she had told me beforehand so I could prepare myself, because her parties had a way of making me realize where I stood.
I felt guilty for thinking this way, because all she ever did was love me selflessly, without expecting anything in return. Sometimes I wished my circumstances were different, so I could enjoy these small moments without drowning in self-loathing.
I knew there was nothing I could do about it, so I pushed those useless thoughts aside.
I dragged myself out of bed, took a shower, and put on the most expensive dress I could find in my wardrobe. Then I headed to her house, boarded a bus, and settled into an empty window seat at the back.
As the bus moved forward, a gentle breeze brushed against my cheek, and I realized autumn was slowly coming to an end. With it came a wave of memories I would rather forget. September had brought an unsettling mix of sadness and calm, along with a story of resilience.
That story whispered, You were brave. You let go. You survived.
Everyone said the choices I made back then were wise. But did I truly choose? I didn’t change. I merely learned the art of letting go and living with memories. Or maybe I was forced to move on from people and memories because I had to live, even when all I wanted at that time was to end my life.
Yet the memories I once believed would bring me comfort now haunt me instead. They have a life of their own, breathing when I least expect them to, striking without warning. Their unpredictability frightens me.
I lifted my gaze to the sky, watching it dull into muted shades. How quickly the days had grown dark and cold, just like everything else.
My thoughts were cut short when I arrived at her house barely thirty minutes later. I rang the bell, and the gate opened to reveal Kashish’s mother, Suman Aunty, wearing that familiar, warm smile.
“Naina, darling, how are you?” she asked, pulling me into a gentle hug.
“I’m good, Aunty. How are you?” I replied softly.
“You look stunning today,” I added, genuinely admiring her.
She laughed shyly, her cheeks flushing. “Oh, stop flattering me.”
Her warmth seeped into places I tried so hard to keep guarded. The way her hand rested on my shoulder, the ease in her voice, the effortless affection in her eyes—it all felt so natural to her.
And that’s when envy crept in. Not the loud, ugly kind. The quiet kind. The kind that sits heavy in your chest and whispers things you never say out loud.
Kashish gets to wake up to this every day. This warmth. This concern. Someone asking if she has eaten, if she’s tired, if she’s okay. Someone whose love doesn’t need to be earned.
I wondered what it would feel like to belong to someone like that. To come home and not feel like a guest in your own life.
I wish I could feel that love too, Mother, I thought, the word aching as it formed inside me.
Memories stirred, old wounds reopening. Why did you both leave me? The question rose again, unfair and selfish, even though I knew it wasn’t their fault. Still, the pain lingered.
I hated myself for it. For still wanting. For still aching.
Guilt wrapped itself around my heart, tightening until it hurt to breathe. The realization burned deep, threatening to pull me under. Before the thoughts could consume me completely, I forced myself to speak.
“Aunty, where’s Kashish?”
“Go to her room,” she said gently, as if she understood more than I had spoken aloud.
Suman Aunty’s tone was a soothing melody, calming the storm inside me. Her concern was gentle yet perceptive, as if she could sense the chaos I carried without me saying a word.
I made my way upstairs, my footsteps quiet, and pushed open the door to Kashish’s room.
Instant regret.
Kashish was surrounded by friends and her maid's, all buzzing around her, fixing her hair, touching up her makeup, laughing loudly. The room felt crowded, alive, overflowing with energy I didn’t quite belong to.
“Oh, sorry, Naina,” Kashish said, glancing at me through the mirror. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
I waved it off casually. “Take your time. I’ll just finish reading this book.”
The moment the words left my mouth, Kashish froze. Her eyes widened in shock as she spun around to face me. Before I could react, she sprinted toward me, her scream cutting through the room.
For the first time, a strange defensiveness surged through me. Instinct took over. I grabbed the nearest pillow and clutched it to my chest, hiding my face like it could protect me.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Kashish yelled.
I peeked over the pillow. “Is something wrong with my dress?” I asked, shrugging.
“Calling this a dress? Seriously?” she scoffed.
“Why?” I asked, genuinely confused.
Kashish sighed like I had personally ruined her entire existence, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me straight into her vanity room.
“You are impossible,” she muttered, shoving me toward the chair as if sentencing me.
She immediately began hunting for a dress, muttering threats and curses under her breath while tearing through her wardrobe. Fifteen painfully long minutes passed as dress after dress was rejected and flung aside, each one apparently committing a personal crime against her aesthetic.
Kashish is a designer. A damn good one. She makes most of her own clothes and occasionally designs for me too. I usually don’t argue with her fashion sense. Mainly because I value my life.
What made it worse was that her own hair and makeup were still half-done. One eye perfectly lined, the other bare. Lipstick smudged slightly. Yet here she was, prioritizing my appearance like a woman on a sacred mission.
The sight of it broke something in me. I laughed.
She slowly turned toward me, her cold, dark eyes locking onto mine. “Is this funny to you?” she asked sweetly. Too sweetly. “Would you like me to personally stop your laughter, my dear Naina?”
Oops. I had definitely pissed her off.
“No, I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll behave myself,” I said quickly.
“Good for you,” she replied flatly.
Moments later, she finally froze, fingers tightening around a dress. She turned, walking toward me like a victorious villain.
“Baby,” she said, smiling dangerously, “you’re going to wear this. I made it especially for you.”
My soul tried to exit my body.
“I’m not wearing makeup,” I said carefully. “And I’m definitely not wearing that dress.”
The room went silent.
Kashish stared at me like I had just confessed to a crime punishable by exile.
To be continued.
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