June 07, 2089
The morning sun stretched its golden fingers across the horizon, gently waking the world. The air was crisp and fresh, filled with the earthy scent of dew-kissed grass and distant pines. Birds chirped cheerfully from the trees, their songs a soft melody in the calm morning. Everything around me felt peaceful, yet within, I carried a storm I couldn't yet calm. The morning sunlight seeped through the wooden shutters, casting fractured beams across the room. I blinked awake, the weight of sleep still clinging to me. Porshe was curled up at the foot of the bed, his soft snoring a comforting backdrop in the otherwise quiet house. For a moment, everything felt distant—the funeral, the weight of my grief, the suffocating expectations. But as my thoughts sharpened, the familiar ache crept back in, a reminder of all the things I was trying to ignore.
Down the hall, I could hear my parents talking, their voices low and steady. The scent of something warm and familiar wafted through the air—breakfast, maybe? My stomach churned at the thought of food.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up slowly. Today, I decided, would be different. I needed to get back to the hostel, to my project. Something about being back there, surrounded by the chaos of college life, felt less suffocating than staying here. My work was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality, even if it felt like a weak thread most days.
The kitchen was bright and bustling when I stepped in. My mother was standing at the stove, flipping something in a pan, while my father sat at the table with a cup of tea. He looked up when he saw me, his expression softening.
"Morning," he greeted, though his tone was weighed down with the exhaustion of the last few days.
"Morning," I muttered, grabbing a glass of water. I hesitated, the words already forming in my mind. Better to get it over with, I thought.
"Dad," I began, my voice steady but firm, "I think I should head back to the hostel today. There's this project I'm working on, and I really can't afford to miss any more time."
Both of them turned to me at once, my mother's brows knitting together in concern. "So soon?" she asked, her voice soft. "You've barely been here even."
"It's important," I said, my tone edging into impatience. "I've already missed enough."
My father set his cup down, folding his hands on the table. "I get that you have responsibilities, but this is your grandfather's funeral. Can't you stay just one more day? There's still some family around, and it's important to be here—for your grandmother, for us."
The frustration bubbled up before I could stop it. "I've been here, haven't I? Helping with everything, doing whatever needed to be done. But I can't just drop everything else. This project—"
"Isn't more important than family," my mother interrupted gently. She left the stove, coming to stand by my side. "We're not trying to hold you back, sweetheart. We just… we don't get to see you often. And after everything that's happened—"
"I know," I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. "But I need to focus on something else right now, okay? Being here, it just—" I stopped, clenching my jaw. I couldn't finish the sentence without giving away too much. Being here made it worse. Made me think about things I didn't want to think about.
My mother placed a hand on my arm, her touch warm and grounding. "Just one more day," she said softly. "Please."
I stared at her, the sincerity in her eyes making it impossible to argue further. My father didn't say anything, but the weight of his gaze was enough to make me feel the guilt settling in my chest.
"Fine," I said after a long pause, my voice barely audible. "One more day."
The hours passed in a blur of activity and conversation. Relatives came and went, offering their condolences and sharing memories of my grandfather. I stayed in the background, nodding along when spoken to but avoiding any meaningful interaction. Porshe stuck close to my side, his presence a quiet comfort amidst the chaos.
By late afternoon, most of the guests had left. The house was quieter now, the weight of grief settling over it like a heavy blanket. I found myself in the living room, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts a chaotic mess. My mother walked in then, carrying two cups of tea.
"Thought you might need this," she said, setting one down in front of me before taking a seat on the couch.
"Thanks," I murmured, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.
For a while, we sat in silence, the only sound the faint clink of the spoon as she stirred her tea. Then, she spoke, her voice hesitant but full of care.
"You've been so quiet lately," she said. "Even before all this happened. I've been worried about you."
I didn't respond, keeping my eyes fixed on the tea.
"It's okay to talk, you know," she continued, her tone gentle. "Whatever it is you're carrying, you don't have to do it alone."
Her words struck a chord deep within me, but I couldn't bring myself to open up. How could I explain what I was feeling when I didn't even understand it myself? How could I tell her about the memories slipping through my fingers, the moments I couldn't hold on to no matter how hard I tried?
"I'm fine," I said finally, the lie burning on my tongue.
She sighed, leaning back against the couch. "You don't have to say anything now," she said quietly. "But just know that I'm here. Always."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again. She didn't push any further, and for that, I was grateful. But as the evening wore on, the weight of unspoken words grew heavier.
Later that evening, I found myself in my room, the photograph of her still tucked away in my pocket. I sat on the edge of the bed, turning it over in my hands. Her face stared back at me, a ghost of the past that refused to let go.
I wanted to tell my parents about the memory loss, about the way entire moments of my life seemed to vanish without a trace. But every time I thought about bringing it up, the words felt too big, too overwhelming. And tonight was no different.
Just as I was gathering the courage to say something, my father knocked on the door. "Can you help with something downstairs?" he asked. "It won't take long."
"Yeah," I said, slipping the photograph back into my pocket. "I'll be right there."
By the time we finished, it was late, and the exhaustion had seeped into my bones. The conversation I had planned to have—the one I had rehearsed in my head a hundred times—slipped away, replaced by the haze of fatigue. I climbed into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chest. Porshe settled at my feet, his presence a small comfort in the growing darkness.
As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I thought about my mother's words. Maybe I didn't have to carry everything alone. But the idea of sharing my pain felt like exposing a wound that hadn't healed. And I wasn't ready for that—not yet.
Sleep came slowly, the weight of the day pressing down on me. But as my eyes finally closed, a single thought lingered in my mind: Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow, I'd find the strength to speak. Although everyone thinks how others aren't that strong to move on, when it comes to themselves they are the ones to cry the most. The thing is I have failed the will to go again, if she comes, I'll be happily ever after or else don't wanna get my heart broken from various people. As the night deepened, a thought stirred within me—a question I wasn't ready to face. What if this path I was walking led to more than just loss? What if...
to be continued...