That night, I stayed awake longer than I should have.
The house had settled into its usual stillness. The lights in the living room were dim, the television long turned off. Yet no one rushed away. My parents sat where they always did, speaking about ordinary things. My sister leaned against the doorway, half-listening, half-lost in her own thoughts.
And for once, I stayed.
I didn't retreat to my room. I sat there, listening, responding when spoken to. I spoke more than I usually did—just enough to be noticed, not enough to feel exposed.
My sister teased me lightly about how quiet I had always been.
"You seem different," she said, smiling.
I shrugged, pretending it didn't matter.
"Maybe," I replied. "School does that, I guess."
She laughed.
My parents didn't say much, but I felt their attention on me—not heavy, not suspicious. Just… present. Watching. Not worried. And that alone made the effort worth it.
That night, before going to bed, my sister asked a few more questions. About Dimapur. About school. About whether I was managing.
I answered calmly. Confidently.
My father listened from his chair, pretending to be focused on something else. He didn't ask questions himself. He never did. But when I spoke, he nodded—slowly, almost unconsciously.
I went to sleep feeling like I had done something right.
Not because I had been myself.
But because I had been better.
The next morning, I woke up early.
The kind of early where the world hasn't fully started yet.
For a moment, I lay there staring at the ceiling, debating whether to roll over and sleep again. Old habits tugged at me—stay quiet, stay unseen, stay comfortable.
But I got up.
I washed my face, stepped outside, and greeted the morning air.
That was when I saw the neighbors.
Normally, I would have nodded and walked past. Maybe smiled politely. Maybe avoided conversation altogether. But this time, I stopped.
"Good morning," I said.
They looked surprised.
The aunt from next door smiled, almost amused.
"Oh? You talk now?" she joked.
I laughed awkwardly.
"I always talked," I said. "Just… not much."
She shook her head, smiling wider.
"You've changed. You sound more confident now."
The words followed me long after I walked away.
That day, I kept going.
I talked to relatives who lived nearby. Responded when spoken to. Asked questions back. I didn't hide in my room as much. I stayed around people, even when silence tempted me.
It was exhausting.
But every small comment—
You've grown.
You seem more mature.
You're different now.
They worked like fuel.
In the evenings, I helped a little around the house. Nothing big. Just enough to be noticed. Enough to be remembered.
And at night, I texted Lyra.
Did you reach?
The reply came later than usual.
Yeah. Network's bad here, but I'm home.
A few seconds later, more messages followed by
Some pictures.
Hills. Trees. A small stream cutting through the land. Then a close-up—tiny mushrooms growing near damp soil, pale and soft, almost unreal.
They're cute, she texted.
I didn't know these grew here.
I smiled without realizing it.
We talked lightly that night. Nothing heavy. Nothing serious. Just small observations. Small comforts.
Later, I went back to the kitchen.
My mother and sister were washing dishes. I leaned against the counter, talking while they worked. I waited until they were done.
It felt… right.
And then I went to sleep.
After that, days passed.
And I kept pretending.
I talked. I stayed present. I responded quickly. I laughed when expected.
And for a while, it worked beautifully.
People believed it.
My parents relaxed. Their questions softened. Their voices carried less worry.
Even I started believing it.
But pretending costs energy.
And slowly, that energy began to fade.
At first, it was subtle. I spoke a little less enthusiastically. Paused longer before replying. Stayed quiet when I could have spoken.
Not because I couldn't pretend.
But because I was tired.
Still, I didn't stop.
I stayed consistent. Active enough. Present enough. Mature enough.
Enough to convince them I had grown.
Enough to make them worry less.
That was the goal, after all.
But deep down, I was drifting back to myself—not in behavior, but in feeling. The quiet. The weight. The need to withdraw.
I noticed it most at night.
When everyone slept, and I was alone with my thoughts.
That was when Lyra mattered the most.
We didn't talk all day. Sometimes not even daily. But whenever we did, something settled inside me. Hearing her worries. Listening to her small complaints. Knowing she was trying too.
It widened something in me.
Made me comfortable enough to speak.
Comfortable enough to act.
That was when I realized something important.
Pretending had become easier because of her.
Because talking to her everyday gave me a good foundation for how to act and communicate better.
So, even if what I was doing was pretending…
I was still doing it.
And that mattered.
And as time went on, I started noticing what I had always overlooked.
The pretending was exhausting, yes—but it wasn't empty. There was a strange shift in pace, a different rhythm to my days. I wasn't moving on autopilot anymore. I was paying attention. To people. To conversations. To myself.
I noticed where I struggled.
Where my words hesitated.
Where my silence came too quickly.
I noticed how often I avoided eye contact. How my thoughts lagged behind conversations. How being present took effort I wasn't used to spending. But I also noticed things I hadn't before—small expressions, changes in tone, the way worry left my parents' faces when I spoke with certainty.
For the first time, I could see my flaws clearly.
Not as accusations—but as gaps.
Places where I could grow.
And strangely, that didn't discourage me.
It made me curious.
Because even while pretending, I had felt something new. A sense of movement. Of participation. Of being involved in my own life instead of watching it from a distance. It wasn't comfort—but it wasn't numbness either.
That was when it finally settled in.
If pretending could bring me this far—
Then changing might not be impossible.
Not all at once.
Not perfectly.
But slowly. Intentionally.
I didn't want to go back to how I was before.
Not completely.
And maybe that was the real difference this time.
I wasn't just acting better for others anymore.
Some part of me wanted to be better—for myself too.
Soon, vacation ended.
Bags were packed. Clothes folded. Plans discussed.
The night before I left, I lay in bed, phone glowing softly in the dark.
Lyra texted first.
Leaving tomorrow?
Yeah.
Be careful.
I hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen, then typed.
I'll try to be better.
There was a pause.
You already are, she replied.
Even if you don't see it.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
That night, something shifted.
Maybe I wasn't pretending to be someone else.
Maybe I was practicing to be better.
Goodbyes were quiet.
My mother hugged me longer than before. My father patted my shoulder—awkward, brief, but real.
They believed me this time even if a little bit.
I left with Cleaven again.
The journey to Dimapur stretched long—hours of road, changing skies, towns passing by like fleeting thoughts. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn't.
I watched the scenery roll past, thinking about everything I hoped would be different.
About trying harder. About pretending better. About becoming someone who wouldn't need to pretend at all.
When we reached Dimapur, the familiarity settled in quickly.
I unpacked. Rested. Prepared.
And when school resumed, I made a decision.
I would be like this here too.
More present. More composed. Better.
The morning felt ordinary.
Himmel came by as usual, and we walked toward school together. Same road. Same timing. Same silence punctuated by casual talk.
As we approached the gate, traffic slowed.
I crossed the road first.
Himmel stayed back, waiting for the cars to pass.
That was when I noticed someone standing near him.
They talked easily.
Laughed.
And then—
I saw his face.
The moment it registered, something twisted violently inside me.
A sharp, sick pain tore through my gut.
My chest tightened. My breath caught.
It wasn't fear.
It was worse.
It felt like something buried deep—something I had tried not to remember—had suddenly clawed its way back to the surface.
Like the past had found me.
Standing there.
Smiling.
And in that moment, all my careful pretending broke away.