The day began with a brightness so pure, it felt like a lie.
Birdsong came through the window, gentle and unaware. My mother set a bowl of cut mangoes on the table. My brother laughed at some joke on TV. My father left for work with a tired smile that tried its best to look confident.
And I... I was holding onto everything like it was made of glass.
Because I knew.
This was the day it all would shatter.
10:32 a.m.
I skipped school that day — told them I was sick. A lie that had never worked before, but this time, my mother let me stay home. Maybe it was the look in my eyes. Or maybe, deep down, she too felt something was off.
I sat in my brother's room, guitar in hand, helping him tune the strings. His voice was light as he spoke, like he had no idea he would be leaving tonight — angry, unheard, slamming the door behind him, and never stepping back in.
"Do you think people are born to follow rules?" he asked out of nowhere.
I paused. "No," I said, carefully. "But they're born to choose which ones to break."
He smiled at that. "You've changed, you know?"
"You have no idea," I murmured.
1:12 p.m.
The phone rang.
I knew what it was before anyone picked it up.
"Hello? Yes, speaking..."
My mother's face slowly collapsed — her lips tightened, eyes darted across invisible words as if the voice on the other end were setting fire to the room.
She didn't say much. She didn't have to.
My father had been laid off.
His company was "downsizing."
Effective immediately.
The silence that followed was cruel. Not because it was loud — but because it wasn't.
No one cried. No one screamed.
The world simply held its breath and turned colder.
5:03 p.m.
I sat beside my dad on the porch.
He didn't say anything. Neither did I.
But I did something I hadn't done in years — I reached out and placed my hand on his shoulder.
He flinched at first. Then... relaxed.
Not much. Just enough.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said.
He gave a small nod. It was all he could manage.
7:45 p.m.
My brother packed a bag.
He didn't yell. He didn't explain.
He just looked at me and said, "Don't become like them."
Then he left.
And this time, I didn't chase after him.
Because I had already seen that version play out — chasing, begging, crying.
This time, I stayed.
Let him leave with dignity, with the door unlocked, with the lights on in case he ever found his way back.
11:59 p.m.
I lay in bed. The day was over.
The storm had passed, but it left behind broken branches, shattered frames, silences that would last for years.
But I was still here.
And tomorrow, I'd start rebuilding.
Piece by aching piece.