In the quiet corridors of the night, when the world outside was cloaked in darkness, Nitish found himself imprisoned in his own mind, a captive of his emotions. His days had become a performance, a carefully choreographed dance of normalcy, while his nights were a descent into a hidden hell.
The morning sun would rise, bringing with it the demands of the day. Nitish would wake up, his eyes puffy from the sleepless nights, and wear his mask - the smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His parents, unaware of the storm raging within him, would greet him, their words a distant murmur that he struggled to comprehend. His mother's concerned gaze and his father's attempts at conversation felt like distant echoes, distorted and muffled.
Nitish was an actor in the play of his life, playing his part with practiced perfection. He would join his friends for a game of cricket, his laughter ringing hollow in his ears. The bat felt heavy in his hands, his reflexes dulled by the weight of his emotions. He would run, jump, and catch, trying to lose himself in the physicality of the game, but Jaanu's absence loomed over him like a specter.
After the game, he would return home, the mask still firmly in place. His parents would smile, blissfully unaware of the turmoil behind his eyes. He would sit with them, engage in conversations, and pretend to be present, all the while feeling like a ghost, a mere shadow of his former self.
Dinner would be a silent affair, the clinking of cutlery against plates punctuating the heavy silence. Nitish would force himself to eat, the food tasteless in his mouth. His mother would glance at him, concern etched on her face, but he would look away, unable to meet her eyes. The weight of his unshed tears felt like a physical burden, pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
His sister, unaware of the storm brewing within him, would pick a fight over trivial matters. Nitish would engage, his words sharp and biting, a desperate attempt to release the pent-up frustration that threatened to consume him. The fights provided a momentary release, a fleeting sense of control in a world that had spun out of his grasp.
And then, as the night settled in, as the world outside became still, Nitish would retreat to the bathroom, his sanctuary of solitude. Behind closed doors, he would allow himself to crumble. The tears, held back throughout the day, would flow freely, his body convulsing with the force of his sobs. The pain, the longing, the heartache would spill out, staining his cheeks and mingling with the water from the shower.
He was a broken soul, a vessel filled with emotions that threatened to drown him. But he couldn't let his parents see. He couldn't burden them with his pain, for their love was the only anchor keeping him from drifting away completely. So, he would cry in silence, his tears merging with the water that washed away his pain, if only temporarily.
Nitish was terrible at showing emotions. He had always been the strong one, the stoic figure that his family relied on. He was the pillar, the support, the one who held everyone together. To show his vulnerability, to reveal the extent of his pain, felt like a betrayal of his very identity.
The nights were the hardest. In the quiet, he would allow himself to remember. He would recall the way Jaanu's eyes lit up when she laughed, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand against his. He would relive their moments together, the love they had shared, and the dreams they had woven. And in those moments, the pain would intensify, becoming a tangible, living thing that wrapped around his heart and squeezed, squeezing until he felt like he would break.
In those moments of vulnerability, he would allow himself to whisper her name, as if the sound of it could bring her back to him. He would speak to her, his words a desperate plea for her to come back, to fill the void she had left behind. He would tell her how much he missed her, how the world felt colorless without her presence, how every smile he faked, every laugh he forced, was a tribute to the love they had shared.
But no matter how much he begged, how much he wished, Jaanu remained silent, her absence a painful reminder of the cruelty of fate. And so, he would cry until he had no tears left, until his body was drained of the emotions that threatened to consume him.
And then, he would wipe his tears away, put his mask back on, and emerge from the bathroom. The world outside was none the wiser, his pain hidden beneath the façade of normalcy. He would crawl into bed, his exhaustion a welcome respite from the emotional turmoil that haunted his waking hours.
In the darkness, he would cling to the memory of Jaanu, his love for her a beacon of light in his hidden hell. He would hold on to the love they had shared, to the moments that had made him believe in the beauty of life. And as he closed his eyes, he would pray for a dreamless sleep, for in dreams, Jaanu was still alive, and waking up to her absence was a pain too great to bear.
So, he would lie in the darkness, his heart heavy with grief, his soul aching for the touch of the one he had lost. And as the night stretched on, he would count the hours until morning, when he would have to put his mask back on and face the world, his hidden hell buried deep within him, where no one could see, where no one could reach.