Does it ever feel fake?

All of it ?

A lie to it’s very core.

Does it ever feel like you’ve been asking for help, and nothing is right. But no one seems to notice. No one seems to give a shit. You’ve been pretending to be okay for so long, now you believe it yourself. But just the belief of something doesn’t necessarily make it real does it now?

You feel suffocated, and things hardly make sense anymore

You wish your senses would be numbed, but they shake with each blow

You wish, things would feel right for once, but they get worse each time

Each step you take, each little movement, just results in something wrong and it all becomes hazy and you wish to lose control when you never really had it in the first place

Each little mask you ever painted ever since day 1, it’s all coming back to haunt you now. The lies you’ve woven for yourself, you’re getting tangled in them



Lost cause.

You’ve always wanted to lose yourself, but not in this way

Losing grasp of who you ever were

Look into the mirror and you can’t see

The blank stare just holds memories now, with no strain of sentiment

It’s all gone

Yet you manage to go on

Living each day as it comes, like a cliché saying repeating itself over and over

Tell me it gets easier

And  I’ll figure it out.






Posted in fiction, flash fiction

One Last Walk

It was winter when our paths first met. The fog aligned and settled itself around you; you in your beige sari, with a red shawl wrapped around your arms, blowing on the cup of tea in your hands. Even in 8 degrees Celsius you were looking so warm, so filled. Your eyes kept wandering to the little puppy playing around, and each time you put the strands of your hair, back in your bun, your cup would tremble in your left hand. I could see specks of paint on your fingers and a poster tube on your back. You were like the first dew drop falling on freshly cut grass, lone and grand.

It was raining when we first kissed. The drops were resting on your eye lashes, as they closed. I could taste the rain on your lips and it felt like ice cream in cold winter mornings. Nothing necessary, but completely exhilarating. I remember, how your bangles broke that day, and how it got stuck on my shirt, while you tried to lean away from me. We walked for a good four hours that day, the same path over and over again.

Sometimes I like to believe, that we all have different paths to take, each laid out in front of us in the shape of decisions we make. These paths lead us to many different places, and these paths separate us from many different experiences. We may be the ones choosing the path, but the destination is something nobody ever figures out. Sometimes these paths meet, collide and separate, and sometimes the collision results in an explosion, leaving all else in ruins.

Four years after, I’m back here, in ruins left behind. Only this time the sound of your nupur was missing. It felt deafening. I took my first step, on this path where I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve walked. But for the first time ever, you weren’t here.

It was summer when you died. I have failed to forget how you looked that day. We were driving to come to our path. To walk for hours again like we used to before. Your hair was open, and blowing in the wind. The smoke from your cigarette getting into your kohl lined eyes. Your smile had the softest shade of pink that day. The pink that got stained with my blood when the car crashed.

They say you’ll get over it. They say you’ll move on, to a different path, to a stronger path. But my path had stopped with you.

Sometimes, certain people pierce into your soul and never leave. They create this small little hole inside you and they reside there forever. Each time you’re with them, you’re gathering memories and storing them in the gentlest way you can, filling this hole. But once their presence leaves, this gaping hole inside, devours you from within. Destroying each fiber one by one. Stabbing you with each little moment, you had stored inside. But that is precisely why you must learn to let go.

That is exactly why; I’m here alone trying to walk off the edge. How can I possibly go on, when my path had ended before me.

One last walk wouldn’t hurt anyone right?

Posted in fiction, flash fiction

Birthday Party

As the dream faded, she chased it, forlorn. She tried to fall back asleep, twisting and turning in her bed. The cushion felt soft to her touch, the temperature was cold, and the blankets were just right. But she felt this weird state of frenzy. She had always been a very calm sleeper, but tonight she couldn’t stop fidgeting.


She had dreamed of him coming back to her, cradled in her mom’s arms. Like the very first time she saw her. It was a pleasant kind of nostalgia, but it was black and white and cold. For the first time in her life, this memory of hers, felt to her very foreign, as if it was never her memory to keep. Failing to fall back asleep, she woke up and made a cup of coffee, lights turned off, the entire house was pitch dark. She walked around the kitchen table, tracing the edge of it with her red nails. She remembered the time when his head could barely reach the table. How he almost hit his head, when he first stood up holding on to this very edge. She used to make coffee the same way, as his small eyes would peak at her, trying to jump and catch a glimpse of his waffles and chocolate syrup.


She turned the lights on in the doorway, as she walked with the mug in her hands sipping on her coffee. She lit her cigarette and paused past each picture on the wall. They were all him. The first baby cot, the first little birthday cake she made for him, his first walker, his first bike and finally his first girl friend. They weren’t exactly together anymore; she had apparently disliked his taste in slimes. But it was too  pretty a picture to take down. She was in a little pink dress, and he had his Dragon Ball Z T-shirt on. The next picture right next to his room was from the time they went to the beach. This memory was still very fresh. She had him in her arms, holding him up high, against the sunset. This was a year and a half ago and he was 6. She touched the dust on the frame with the hands of her sweater, as she thought how light he was back then. They all thought he wouldn’t grow. But he did.


She turned the knob on his door, and slowly opened the door to him. He was still the cutest little kid she had ever seen. He had very faint similarities to his dad, and he was rather identical to her, she always told herself even though no one would ever say he looked anything like her. She tip toed across his bed, and turned on the lamp and his face lit up. She looked at his lashes, so long and blonde; and his little baby cheeks, she kissed them. As she was leaning on him, she felt something drip on her toes. The blood from his body was leaking down to floor, crippling down the bed sheets. She can’t possibly get a stain on the floor, she thought. She would have to clean this mess up as soon as she could.


But her little boy looked so peaceful; she didn’t want to move him an inch. But her OCD was getting to her. She looked at him once more, before going over to the kitchen. This time she turned on the lights. She thought she should clean the knives first. As she turned the tap on, the water trickled down the dried blood on the knife. She would have to get her hands dirty it seemed. She sighed, as she took a dollop of dish washing liquid and started cleaning the blood off with a sponge. She took her time with it. The water falling down was ice cold, and her hands had gotten numb. The ashes from the cigarette on her lips were now dropping off into the sink.


When she was finally done, she took a mop to his room and turned the air conditioning on. She began by taking the blanket off as she regretted stabbing him through the blanket. It was such a waste to throw the beautiful blue color away. She stripped his clothes off, one by one, carefully folding them and keeping them in the laundry basket. Finally, she cleaned the wound in his gut and stopped the bleeding with a lot of gauze and bandage. Her hands were perfectly calm again, not like when she awoke. Then she picked him up, and sat him in the chair; the same chair where he first wrote his ABCs and on the same desk, where she had helped him carve her name.  She noticed that his medical reports had blood on them. She wiped them off, with her white sleeves, and put them away in the trash. He had been diagnosed with Medulloblastoma last year. Right in front of her eyes, he had changed from her little ball of sunshine to a ticking bomb. She couldn’t take it anymore, seeing him die little by little. So she took matters to her own hands.


She changed the bed sheets, and for the last time she put him to bed. She put out a fresh new blanket she had brought for him yesterday and kissed him on his soft blonde bangs and whispered “Happy Birthday, Love”.




What It’s Like Having Phone Anxiety 

So I’m pretty sure most people won’t relate but at least superwoman does .234687
Having Phone anxiety is weird. Like it literally makes zero sense most of the time. Because phone calls have become an essential part of our lives now and there is literally no way you can avoid it. Here are certain things you have to deal with because of this weirdness.

You’re a shitty friend : okay so most friends will expect you to call. Or if you’re lucky enough they’ll at least expect you to pick up. But for someone with phone anxiety it’s an extremely tedious task. That feeling of utter disappointment when your phone rings is what sucks.


Now it’s not that you hate the person. Oh no. It could be someone you absolutely adore but you still might dread a phone call from them. And then of course people also expect you to call back. ( rolls eyes )  They expect you to call them once in a while and ask them how they’ve been. Or maybe even during a crisis moment when your best friend has broken up with their boyfriend and texts you

“can you call asap ? ”

” umm I’m sorta busy right now can we text ? ”

does not go down well in the “being there when I need you” vow of friendship. And then of course there are people who aren’t good with texting like normal people aka me. You want to talk to them and want to listen to everything that happened with them but they won’t type and you won’t call. It’s a nightmare. You just need those people who’ll text with you and those are hard to find. I mean emails, letters, voice recordings even,  so much better but no you muggles have to talk. Ugh.
Online delivery : you know most of the time you’re glad that online ordering exists and most things can be done in a click. But God forbid you have to call a stranger to ask whether that they deliver to your area or something, because they won’t reply on the page. Oh hell no. You’d rather starve then call a random stranger and ask.if they have food for you. Even you go past all this, the delivery guy will certainly call and you will certainly have to pick up. Oh those minutes of utter terror.
Family : as if talking with your distant relative isn’t awkward enough face to face. What the hell do you talk about  ? You can’t even awkwardly nod yes or no to each of the questions. True story, I once blocked one of my relatives just because I didn’t really wanna talk on the phone with her. Sorry if you’re reading this. Ehehe.


Long distance  : you know that awkward pause you get when you’re talking long distance and the sound travels. Yeah that happens less now with online calling and shit but it is so weird. I mean is the other person gonna say something ? Do you wait ? What if you start talking together ? And since it’s delayed you both either start together or stop together. God,rocket science is easier than deciphering this shit.

And that is how ladies and gentlemen I hate phone calls. There’s no particular reason for it. Yes I’m just that weird. It honestly takes a lot to find someone you’re comfortable talking on the phone with and it rarely happens. If you have this weirdness and have managed to find someone you can talk to normally NEVER LET THEM GO.

Posted in fiction

Day 22

He remembered how fragile her bare shoulders felt inside his grasp. The only time he could see how vulnerable she was, was when her shoulders trembled within his hands. They were so soft and tender, and it somehow always reminded him of the time he held his baby sister for the first time in the hospital. It was the scariest thing he’d ever done, being responsible for a new life. But at the same time, there was this ever encompassing love that he could feel filling up his insides. It was the same when she would lie in his arms, and it was frightening and warm all at the same time.

She woke up to an empty room. There was nothing there, except the bed she had spent the last night in. It probably couldn’t be called a bed to be honest. Just a rug and some pillows. She had to move out, and everything else was gone, sold or packed up at the new apartment. She couldn’t afford living in a house, and she honestly didn’t want to. Her dad was the one paying for everything, and after his death everything sort of fell apart. Inside and out. As she folded the covers, and put them in a box, she thought of the time she caught him writing a letter on this very rug.

“Who’s it for?” she had asked, maybe with a slight jealousy, and little hope that it’d be for her.

“No one”

“So it’s not for me then?”

“You’re right here with me, why would I write to you ?”

“ I don’t know. To be poetic ?” she sulked.

She sat beside him, and started tracing the green veins on her hands. As much as he liked seeing her thin finger go up and down the bulges as if they were telling their own story, he knew what this meant. She was a little upset probably, why he wouldn’t tell her.

“It’s just letters to no one in particular. And then maybe to a lot of people. I address them to different names. The first name that comes into my mind, I think of them and make up how they are and write to them.  With the forms of communication we have now we usually end up talking about nothing rather than something. With letters you put your thoughts onto paper and each word is filled with emotion. You end up writing things which you didn’t even know you wanted to say. I have a hard time talking to people, and I guess I have a lot to say sometimes. I feel better talking to paper. It’s just something I do I guess.”

She didn’t reply, silence with them was never an issue. They left things unsaid, and sometimes they’d say a lot. It was everything and nothing at all altogether.

When she was done putting the last of her stuff in the box, she left the room and bid farewell.

He lit up his first joint in 3 days. 3 days ago, he heard she’d be leaving. It was 7 am, and he hadn’t slept at all. He looked at the box she left her, but couldn’t get himself to get up and open it. His insides were dying to know what it held but he knew whatever it was it’d destroy him. “Well, what’s love if not devastating and absolutely soul crushing?” He thought he would write but he just sat there.  The smoke danced around in front of him and he caught himself humming the song she used to sing.

When she got into the car, she saw her mom already in the front seat, crying. She felt so helpless when she did that. She stared at the rain drops trickling down the glass. She saw some drops stopping mid way, some going forward, some staying still as if waiting for the other to catch up. But life wouldn’t do the same. Her whole world had crashed down but nothing had stopped. Not even for a brief moment. It all felt so harsh. The image of her father’s vacant eyes wouldn’t leave her. He was hanging from the ceiling, wearing her favorite blue tie. She couldn’t help but blame herself for it all. Maybe if she had never been there they’d be living happy and well. The college tuition and her rehab weren’t really helping anyone. Her father had promised her his blue tie when she was three.

“When you grow up and have your very own ice cream company, you’ll wear this to work every day okay?”

And here she was, not even going through college. She had always found how Ray cared for her to be similar to her father. They both believed in her too much. And she always came short. Never rising to their dreams, and living off barely enough. Sometimes she felt like, she couldn’t have dreams of her own, as the weight of theirs was just too much.

It was like she couldn’t get herself to get up and breathe every morning anymore. She couldn’t face herself. Deep inside she knew Ray would never give up on her, but she couldn’t face him anymore. She felt like maybe she’d drive him off the edge too if things went the way they were going. She was a kind of broken he couldn’t fix. Not when he was so burnt himself.

So they decided not to meet again. Not even one last time. She had sent him that box through mail. He finally got up and decided to open it. It was a drab brown box, and there was a note on top.

“All this time you were writing to strangers, but I was writing to you. I started when you first told me that day and I haven’t stopped since. Only now, I can’t get myself to pick up a pen and write to you. There are voices in my head that stop me. Sometimes love just isn’t enough, I guess. It’s been seven years and I’ve kept all of them. I hope you forgive me and yourself. I hope I can too.

Forever in love, Eira.”

She moved away to another city and he stayed by his window wishing for someone to write to.




March 13, 2016

*i found this in my drafts. wrote this about 2 years ago. still relevant though. apologies for the cringe *

Now I’ve been observing this for a while now, and I sort of refuse to believe this is how it actually is. It’s probably something that only happens in my circles, or like my city. Maybe ? Please do correct me if I’m wrong. And I’m not stereotyping, or trying not to. Not everybody is the same and I would never judge anybody, ever for this.

So I came across this post today, and I forgot to screenshot it. But it went something like this “If you want girls to stop friend-zoning guys, maybe you should stop trying to flirt with everything that moves.” Now that’s an overstatement, clearly. But I guess I sort of agree.

Now girls and guys both do this. Let me explain. Usually, unless you have intentions of something more than friendship or you know just having fun or unless you think the other person is attractive, you won’t give her/him the same amount of time you would if you had a crush on him/her. Like A LOT of people, just don’t even want friendship. It’s either just passing time, or flirting or trying to get in their pants. ( i live in a very conservative society. Nobody’s getting into anybody’s pants here. na-uh bruh. it feels weird just saying it XD )

There are people who are super nice to people of the other gender and act real cute and reply really fast, but when it’s just someone looking for just having a good time and wanting to be friends, trying to talk to them about i don’t know, just life, they’re suddenly not interested. And they don’t make half the effort they would if it was someone looking for more than friendship.

It’s all about having “fun” and passing time nowadays. I mean friendship needs just as much nurturing and care as does any other relationship. Whenever we click with someone, and we think they’re fun to talk to why is it that the first thought that comes to our mind is “is s/he single ? am I getting feelings for this person?” and why not “wow, maybe we’ll become the coolest friends ever”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am obviously not saying everyone is like this, but an alarming number of people are. All people care about nowadays is love and relationships and flirting and all that. What happened to the good old days where you could chat up with someone without it being considered flirting ? Without the other person thinking that you’re “interested”

The other gender ( or same gender, really. you get the point) isn’t just something to fuck with. Human beings are great as friends as well, and maybe if we spent a little more time trying to be just be nice with people without any “intentions” we’d have much less friend zoned people and more cool friends.

Posted in flash fiction

The One That Got Away

Been a long time since I came back to town.

Everything seems to have changed, but everything feels the same. The same roads, the same skies, and the same person I was back then. It’s been I don’t know how long since I last came here. It’s been I don’t know how long since I last met you.

But everything has changed. We have changed.

Do you remember what it felt like watching the skies burn that night? You tasted like smoke and burnt peppermint, and my hands intertwined within your hair. I used to love that your hair back then was longer than mine. The stereo was on, and you could hear me humming All I Need, each time you let go of my lips. Do you remember how that brought a smile on your face?

But I forgot how to hum like that. I don’t anymore.

It’s been so long since I last heard you play. Do you still play the bass like you used to? Did you make a career out of it like you said you would? Did you fuck all those hot girls who would get you laid just because you’re in a band? I guess I never told you, how I loved that sparkle in your eyes whenever you would talk about what you wanted to do. I guess I never told you, how that was what kept me going through mom’s divorce. Your whole face used to light up and you could go on and on and on talking about what you’d do. I felt so warm being around someone with so much hope, when I had little of my own.  It’s been so long since I was last part of any of your dreams.

But I guess your dreams have changed. Mine didn’t.

You gave me yours, and I guess I never could let go of them. You taught me how to have expectations and you showed me how beautiful it all was. I was living through you. You left me in tears when we went to our first concert. You made me jump when we had our first roller coaster ride. You made me laugh when we first got high. You made me throw up when we first finished that all you can eat pizza challenge. You made me shiver when we got drenched in winter. You made me see myself when it all made sense for a while.

But I guess nothing ever lasts. We didn’t.

I’ve been walking for an hour now. I didn’t forget a thing about this place. I remember every corner, every turn. It’s where we lived. It was home. It still is. It’s just, not ours anymore. I can see you through the faded glass of the coffee shop. I guess I don’t have the guts to face you. Not when I know what your face will do to my insides. Everything I’ve tried so hard to keep inside, will keep rushing up. Then again, who am I kidding? They’ve always been there. I could never let go. Your presence never left me, even long after you did. That warmth always kept me up thinking, feeling, and breathing for you.

But I can’t ever face you.

And so I leave

Just like I came