Mornings don't mean anything anymore. The alarm rings, but I don't wake up — not really. My body moves, but my mind stays behind somewhere in that gray space between dream and memory. The shower's cold. The mirror fogs. I brush my teeth without toothpaste sometimes. The routine feels like a joke I keep playing on myself.
The world outside still moves like it always did. Buses honk. Kids laugh. People rush with coffee cups and purpose. And me? I'm just floating — walking, breathing, pretending I belong among them. At work, I nod, type, even laugh when someone cracks a joke. They think I'm fine. Hell, maybe they don't even notice I'm not. Everyone's too busy living their own tragedies.
Sometimes, in the middle of typing, I just… stop. My hands freeze. I stare at the blinking cursor like it's mocking me. It keeps flashing, like a heartbeat on a monitor — alive, while I'm not. I close my eyes, and for a moment, I hear her voice."Dhruve, don't forget your lunch."That little laugh she'd make after, the way she'd reach for my tie, straighten it like I was a kid.
Fuck.
I still see her face — not the face from that day in bed with someone else, but the one from before. Smiling at me from across the table, eyes soft, saying things like, "You make life feel safe."Safe.That word burns.
By afternoon, I'm running on autopilot. People talk to me; I respond. I don't remember half the conversations. My phone buzzes — messages from unknown numbers, probably people I don't care about. I delete them all. The only thing I check sometimes is the old photos. The ones I swore I'd delete but couldn't. Each picture feels like a knife dipped in honey. I want to stop looking, but I can't. It's like pressing a bruise to make sure it still hurts.
At night, I walk. Just keep walking with no direction. The city feels different after midnight — quieter, lonelier, honest. I pass by couples holding hands and wonder if they'll last. Maybe one of them will forget a phone someday too. Maybe their world will burn like mine did. That thought makes me smile — not because it's funny, but because it's the only thing that makes sense anymore.
Once, I sat on a park bench till morning. Watched the sky turn pale. I thought, maybe this is it. Maybe this is what life becomes when you've lost everything — just breathing because your body doesn't know how to stop.
I tried talking to myself that morning. "You'll be okay," I said out loud. The words felt stupid, hollow. Okay? What does that even mean now? You don't fix a heart that's been stepped on; you just learn to walk with the limp.
The next day, I almost called her. My thumb hovered over her number for a full minute. I didn't even know what I'd say. "Hi"? "I miss you"? "Do you remember what you did to me"?In the end, I didn't call. I just sat there, staring at her name until my vision blurred. Then I laughed. A broken, bitter laugh.Because even now, part of me still hoped she'd call first.
When I went home that night, I stood at the door for a long time before unlocking it. I used to hear her voice inside — "Welcome home, dear."Now the only sound was the creak of the hinges. Same walls. Same furniture. But it all felt like a museum now — exhibits of a life I used to have.The dining table still had a faint mark where her cup used to sit. I ran my finger over it, and suddenly, it hit me — that everything I ever wanted was already gone. Not stolen. Just… gone. Like smoke.
I sat on the couch and closed my eyes. The air felt heavy. My chest ached, not sharp pain, just a dull, constant pressure — like someone sitting on me, quietly, without moving.Maybe that's what grief really is. Not crying. Not screaming. Just… carrying the weight of nothing.And every breath you take feels like lifting it all over again.
When I finally opened my eyes, the room was still dark. The only light came from the phone screen — the clock said 3:27 a.m. I stared at it and whispered, "Still here, huh?"
Then I laughed. Because I honestly didn't know if I was talking to myself… or to the ghost of the man I used to be.