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enough

Today I woke up hungry today, the kind of hunger that isn’t just about food but about being taken care of. I was actually excited for breakfast, which feels embarrassing to admit because it’s such a small thing—but I think that’s the point. I wanted something normal. Something warm. Something that said, you matter enough for someone to think of you. There was nothing for me. There never is. There was food for my brother, though. That part hurt more than I expected. I didn’t say anything. I just went back to my room, carrying that quiet, familiar anger—the kind that sits in your chest and pretends it’s fine until it isn’t. Then came the lecture. How I’m “used to eating out.” How ungrateful I am. How I should apparently be grateful for not being considered. She said it once, then came back and said it again, as if repetition might turn cruelty into truth. Later, she made something I don’t even like and announced it was “for me,” like a favour I should applaud. I was hungry. I was angry. ...
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LONGING FOR HOME

I came home after a week feeling unwell—my throat sore, my body aching in that unmistakable way that tells you a fever is coming. By the time I lay down, everything felt like it was burning. I slept for hours, drifting in and out, dizzy and heavy, the kind of tired that sinks into your bones. Five hours passed, maybe more. No one checked on me. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I started missing Baba. Deeply. Achingly. My mind betrayed me and replayed that night—the ambulance, the prayers, the fear I couldn’t say out loud. I cried quietly, the way you do when you don’t want to be heard but desperately want to be noticed. Being sick has a cruel way of peeling you open like that. It brings grief back to the surface, raw and uninvited. What hurt almost as much as the fever was the silence. My mother never came to see why I’d been in bed for so long. Eventually, I had to call her myself and ask for medicine. She came in irritated, said, “ab kia ho gaya tumhe,” handed me something, a...
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overwhelmed feelings

 Today broke me in ways I didn’t expect. It’s the anniversary of my father’s funeral, and everything I’ve been holding inside cracked open. I didn’t feel like the 19-year-old me I felt like 12-year-old Leena again, waiting for her father to come home from that plcae, Only this time, there’s no hope, no door opening, no footsteps. Just the truth that he’s gone forever. And that thought that the hands I held, the face I kissed  is now nothing but bones… it shattered something inside me. I’ve been blasting music  anything loud enough to make my mind numb , It’s the only thing that makes the silence bearable. And as if grief wasn’t enough, life had to add humiliation on top of it. I needed a coat for my uniform. My stepbrother refused to go with me, tossed me chump change like I was begging on the street. So I went with my mother, but every thrift shop felt wrong. I was already on edge. And when she kept insisting I was being “unreasonable,” I snapped. I yelled. I didn’t want...
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IS THIS WHAT I'VE BECOME

  Is this what I’ve become a fragment of your memory, a bundle of what ifs and quiet regrets? I still find you in the smallest things, Your scent which still lingers in your sweater, in the quiet moments when everything slows down and I almost feel you near. I wonder if you’d still recognize me now. I’ve grown, I’ve changed, but some days I’m still a mess a collection of broken dreams and the pieces of the me you used to know. There are parts of me that froze the day you left, still waiting for your voice to tell me it’s going to be okay. Sometimes I talk to you out loud, just to fill the silence. I imagine you’d laugh at that and say I’m being dramatic, but listen anyway, the way you always did. Other times, I write you letters like this one, hoping somehow they’ll find their way to wherever you are. I don’t know if you can see me, but I hope you do. And I hope when you look my way, you’re still proud, even of the fragile, stumbling version of me that’s still trying to make sense ...
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DENIAL?

 They say there are 5 stages of grief and as time passes you reach the final stage (acceptance) but I feel like I'm somewhat caught between denial and anger. I still don't want to believe that you're gone , it feels like I'm back in 5th grade waiting for you by the front door only back then I knew you were coming. I finally made myself watch the funeral video today and it felt like someone stabbed me in heart, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't believe what I was seeing, seeing you covered in all white. I remember white was your favourite colour but rn I hated that white on you , I hated the white that sucked life out of your face. I've a lot to say but somehow everytime I visit you, my mind goes blank. All I could do is cry over my loss and all those thoughts that I keep suppressing starts making there way to me.  IS THIS REALLY WHAT I'VE BECOME NOW? A FRAGMENT OF YOUR MEMORIES,  A BUNDLE OF WHAT IFS AND REGRETS, SO WHEN DO I GEF TO SEE YOU WILL I BE STILL ...
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dream where i killed myself

 ðŸ•° Diary Entry September 8th, 2025 Between anger and longing I had one of the strangest dreams tonight. My family and I were sitting down to eat—my brother, sister, parents and something inside me snapped. They were all paying more attention to my sister than me, and I could feel the anger building, heavy and hot. I stormed into my room, slamming the door like I was sealing myself away from them. Then my sister came in to use my bathroom. That made me furious. I forced her out, shut the door, and we struggled with it,her pushing, me holding it shut. Then my mother came. She slipped her hand into the door, and it got hurt in the struggle. Instead of stopping everything, she let my sister win, let her use the bathroom. That cut deeper than anything. I felt invisible. Small. Like my feelings didn’t matter. That’s when the dream turned dark. My anger didn’t stay with them it turned inward, against myself. It was as if my dream-self thought, “Maybe if I disappear, they’ll finally be ha...
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Another dream i had

August 6th, 2025 Late morning, somewhere between sleep and memory I saw him again. It started in that strange, knowing way dreams sometimes do—where I already knew something terrible had happened, or was about to. Baba was sick. Really sick. The kind of sick where you brace yourself for a phone call or a final breath. But he didn’t die. Not in this dream. He survived. And it felt like the whole house had been holding its breath with him. It was around 11 a.m. when I finally woke up in the dream—late, lazy, almost guilty. The house was quiet in that odd way that makes you feel like you’ve missed something. I walked into Baba’s room, expecting to find him resting or weak—but he was there, standing, dressed in the brightest white suit I’ve ever seen. Like it had been stitched from light itself. He was getting ready for work, which was strange. He always used to leave by 9 a.m. sharp, never later. Routine was sacred to him. But there he was—late and glowing—and somehow, I didn’t que...
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