A.V

It's been a while. I want to tell you about a demon the one you've glimpsed, though I’ve never named her. I don't talk much. Filled with isolophilia I am, content in the company of quiet. Silence is all I can offer in a conversation. Or strange, uninvited questions that tug too hard at the seams of shallow talk. You ask me why I always lay off plans with you. Dear, how do I show you the parts of me I’ve only ever written down? She hesitates.. scared showing you all of herself. That your eyes and mind would judge mine. That your presence would overwhelm my senses. The way my gaze slides away from others’ might repulse you. The stillness in my voice might bore you. And the love I carry might never reach you at all. The truth is, I spend most of my days with paper. I talk to my diary so my mind can hear birds instead of static. I tell it everything so there’s never much left for you. You once asked why I almost always attend parties. What can I say? People watching...

You wrenched humans who prey on others’ lives while guarding your own boundaries, as if mine don’t exist too. You who cross the boundaries of respect as if you're not human yourselves, those who mock while reading my soul.  I made a promise to myself to never share my diaries with anyone. You took them not just from the page, but from the heart they came from. This felony you show, human—when you hide your privacy, I back away too, to respect your life. So why did you hold my naked pieces so tightly, as if to rape my soul was your right? Do you not have eyes to see how hard it was on me? I have rage too, dear humans. But closeness kept me from unleashing it upon you. I may be someone who hates conflict but you changed me that night. This open book will now have iron-locked doors, whose keys will be hidden far, far away. Some parts of the soul are not meant to be read, not even by those we once called close. I do not hate you for what you did. Part of the fault lies with me ...

You know… We just had your... Funeral. It wasn't grandeur, no, no, it wasn't like that. Everyone was asking Why did you leave? You know,  Mother’s holed up in her room, surrounded by your pictures. Nostalgic right  She weeps endlessly What, you're asking about me? All I want to know is why . Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you ask for help? Why didn’t you just… reach out a finger? Just one. You know I would’ve come. Even if you were in hell, I would’ve dragged you out. You know that, and I know you know that.  You were my umbrella the only place I found solace, a place Father never could give. You were that for me. You were everything . But now… what do I do? I’m eighteen. But I’m no adult . Not enough to carry this. Not enough to walk this world alone. This society, this life How am I supposed to tread it without a light to guide me? What were you trying to teach me, huh? To jump from buildings the moment life hurts too much? Because I swear to y...

“Dad, what should I make for dinner?” she asked. My daughter, twenty-one now, standing in the kitchen with tired eyes and a wooden spoon. “Get ready,” I replied, pushing myself off the couch. “We’re going out.” “Where to?” “Well, what do you feel like eating? Pizza? Paneer? Or maybe... dosa?” She thought for a moment. “Dosa it is, then.” A few minutes later, we were getting ready. I stepped into the hallway and paused at the sight of her. “Oh dear,” I said, trying to hide my instinct behind a warm voice. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” She groaned. “Ugh, Dad. Why not?” “The skirt’s too short. Wear a kurti.” She sighed dramatically, but turned and went back into her room without a word. Outside, the sky was restless. The clouds flashed above. The wind was cold, and not a single star was visible. It was going to rain, one of those long, thoughtful rains. Then Lily emerged, dolled up, in a light blue kurti, earrings catching the dull hallway light, and her long hair le...