Edited by: Devaki Divan
My own hand is on my mouth. It jitters profusely. Should I hug myself or should I shut myself up? What if someone hears me? I’m on vacation. I cannot have a panic attack. Sorry. 3 panic attacks. Over something that I cannot explain. I switch between cradling my body and stuffing my heavier breaths. I move back and forth in an aggressive rhythm. Inconsistent and changing. I hope to find something to hold onto. I need assurance. Even from an inanimate object. I don’t trust me. Not with myself. Not in this moment. I think I just felt a lizard crawl past me. I am not phased. For the first time. My phone is here. So close yet so far. Strewn to the opposite end of the washroom floor. Right next to where the ceiling is leaking in a mocking tone. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip, you loser. Drip, you’re such a mess. Drip, you are unfixable. I should at least try to reach out to it. Call a friend. They are happier. They are unaware. They are living. I can’t move.
I love them.
I am on my own.
How do I not make a sound here? It’s been hard. So hard. I am syncing my sobs to the drowned noise of the engine. I can’t get caught. Not like this. Not on my way to a picnic. I need to stop making everything about myself. I need to pull myself together. I cannot be doing this again. How selfish. How dysfunctional. I don’t let myself be happy. I don’t let myself deserve a day of peace. I just want to howl. And beat up something. And throw something. And probably burn something down. I have to stare instead at swaying chaste white wheat fields, so calm, in the most punishing sun in this backseat. The seatbelt pushing me back into my seat is the only thing keeping me from mayhem. I clench my fists. And my teeth. I pray for a time out. My prayer is covered in summer warmth burning me inside out. Sweat trickles down the side of my forehead. By the time it reaches my neck I am unaware if it is sweat or a tear. It doesn’t matter. The AC is barely working. You can hear May in the lazy buzzing of bees. My parents are singing along to Iktara. They assume I am asleep. I have soaked my sleeve, and not with sweat.
I love them.
I am on my own.
They look at each other, all of them, and exchange looks and laughs for a while; and I overhear some talk of things I don’t know much about. I see them talk to each other often. More often than I am mentioned. I walk, but slightly behind. Purposely. They dont notice. They have intricately curated inside jokes. From the times that I forfeited for sleep. And montages of smiles from nights I was part of but yet not. I have gone unnoticed a lot. Purposely. I see this world as something I hop in and out of very often. I am not grounded, I don’t know what that means. So I am not complaining, don’t get me wrong. This is on me. I am an escapist. A wanderer who probably doesn’t even want to be tied down to the idea of belonging. Liking it within more than without. They would drop everything in their life if I expressed the need. They think they know me. But I don’t even know myself. So I never fixate. I let go. They laugh. I walk. Behind.
I love them.
I am on my own.
We sit opposite each other at that restaurant table and I look into his eyes. They remind me of hazelnuts. Nothing too fancy. Just coffee. Which happens to be the favourite part of my day. And my life. I see him and feel flowers bloom in my stomach. And I feel warmth. Comfort. His eyes should have belonged to me long ago. They remind me of what coming home feels like. His curls fall on his face. Because it needs to be framed. It is a painting. He laughs. And the sound fills me with purpose. With the peace of a sunset. He clinks his glass with mine and there is electricity. I may be in shock. I take a look at him again. As if I had even bothered to look at anything else. I see infinity. All of it. And also sunflowers and roses. I am his friend, a close one indeed. He doesn’t know. I must protect him from hurt. From loss. From me. His ignorance makes him the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. He is entirely unaware. I don’t plan on telling him.
I love him.
I am on my own.
I stare in my mirror and I twirl my hair. It’s oily. I washed it two days ago. I have acne. and there’s something undeniably wrong about my face. I feel bloated. My nails haven’t grown. I bite them often. I know I shouldn’t. My top isn’t cute enough. I make myself up. It’s cakey. I take it off. I sit on the floor after changing four outfits. I need to buy skincare. And take vitamins. I purchase a yoga mat I know I will never use.“Why can’t you be beautiful enough? Have you seen the rest of them here?” I take out a cuter top. I pull my hair back. I will wash it again tonight. I wear hoops. And mascara. And some lip gloss. I will only eat fruits today. And take a walk. I totter out with a smile. I have always been good at pretending. My neighbour wows. “You look beautiful so effortlessly! How do you do this?”
I love her.
I am on my own.
I sit with my annotated book on the terrace and sigh. What a hard day. What a hard week. I pick up my bookmark and giggle at the animated bunny. I see my keychains dangling on the side of my purple pouch. I look at the birds migrating. I pick up my tea cup and sip on it. The floor is cold. I like to be barefoot. And bareface too. I hear nothing and no one except my own breaths. I like it. Sometimes I forget to differentiate between loneliness and solitude. I taste the quiet in the air. It is a flavour that suits me. And I hear the uninterrupted harmony. Nothing temporary here. Nothing volatile. I can rely on her being there. I can rely on me. Securely. Unconditionally.
I love it.
I am on my own.
And it’s okay.