The problem with quiet happiness is that it doesn't announce itself.
It just sits there, unsure whether it's allowed to stay.
The morning after we met, I wake up with that same uncertainty. Sunlight slips through the curtain, landing on the wall like it always does, but today it feels… intentional. As if the day chose to show up gently.
I lie still for a while, listening to the ceiling fan hum. My phone is on the table, screen dark. No notifications. No urgency.
And yet, my chest feels fuller than usual.
I sit up slowly, waiting for the familiar tightness to return. It doesn't. Not immediately. That surprises me enough to make me pause. I place my hand over my chest, feeling my heartbeat—steady, unhurried.
I don't remember the last time I noticed it without fear.
---
The day moves in small, ordinary pieces.
I brush my teeth, make tea, burn the toast slightly and scrape off the blackened edge like it's a normal thing. Outside, someone argues with a rickshaw driver. Somewhere, a pressure cooker whistles. The city is awake, loud in its own careless way.
I step out for work with my bag slung over my shoulder, mind quieter than usual. My feet know the way. They always have. What's different is the way my thoughts don't immediately run back to the past.
They hover. Curious. Waiting.
---
At work, people notice me just enough to make me uncomfortable.
"You're early today," someone says.
I nod. "Couldn't sleep much."
It's not a lie. Just not the whole truth.
I sit at my desk and open my system. The screen loads slowly. I tap my fingers against the table, then stop when I realize I'm doing it without anxiety. Just… habit.
Mid-morning, I catch myself replaying moments from last night. Not obsessively. Just in flashes.
The way they said my name.
The pause before their honesty.
The silence that didn't demand filling.
It's strange how some memories arrive softly, while others kick down the door.
---
During lunch, I sit alone as usual, but I don't feel as separate today. I scroll through my phone and stop when I see a message.
Did you sleep okay?
I read it twice.
Then reply:
Better than usual.
A pause.
Then:
I'm glad.
Two simple words. They sit with me longer than they should.
---
The afternoon passes quietly. Too quietly.
By the time I leave work, the sky has turned heavy with clouds. The air feels like it's holding something back. I walk instead of taking the bus, hands in my pockets, letting the street noise blur into the background.
Halfway home, a sudden sound makes my body freeze.
Laughter.
Sharp. Loud. Too close.
A group of boys—college age, maybe younger—stand near a tea stall, pushing one of their friends back and forth. It looks harmless from the outside. Playful. Normal.
My body doesn't see it that way.
My shoulders tense. My breathing changes before my mind can catch up. For a second, I'm not on this road anymore.
I'm back in a corridor that smells of disinfectant and sweat.
Back to voices that pretend to joke.
Back to hands that don't feel friendly.
I stop walking.
My heart starts to beat faster, then unevenly. The space between each beat feels stretched, fragile.
I look down at my hands. They're shaking.
"Not here," I whisper to myself. "Not now."
I force my feet to move again, eyes fixed on the road ahead. I don't look back. I don't slow down until the sounds fade behind me.
---
By the time I reach my room, I feel exhausted in a way sleep doesn't fix. I drop my bag and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, breathing slowly.
So this is how it works, I think.
Good days don't erase the bad ones.
They just make the cracks more visible.
My phone buzzes.
You okay?
I stare at the message. My first instinct is to lie. To type Haan and close the conversation like a door.
Instead, I type:
I got triggered on the way back.
The words look strange on the screen. Heavy. Honest.
The reply doesn't come immediately.
For a moment, fear rises—did I say too much?
Then my phone vibrates.
Do you want to talk about it?
Or do you just want company?
I swallow.
Company is fine, I reply.
I'm here, comes the answer. No follow-up. No pressure.
I lean back on the bed and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
---
Night settles in again, slow and uncertain.
I make dinner and barely taste it. The fan creaks. A mosquito buzzes near my ear. Normal annoyances. Anchors to the present.
Later, I sit by the window, knees pulled up, phone resting in my hand. We don't talk constantly. Just occasional messages. Small observations. Shared silence.
At some point, they type:
Do you ever feel angry about it?
The question catches me off guard.
Anger has always felt like a luxury. Something other people were allowed to feel.
I don't know how, I reply honestly.
I learned fear first.
There's a long pause.
That makes sense, they finally say.
But fear isn't the only thing that survived.
I think about that for a long time.
---
Later that night, memories come uninvited.
Not the loud ones.
The quiet humiliations.
Being told to clean things that weren't dirty.
Being laughed at for eating slowly.
Being ignored when I tried to speak.
I remember one afternoon in the hostel when a senior asked me why I never fought back.
I didn't have an answer then.
I still don't.
But tonight, instead of pushing the memory away, I sit with it. I let it exist without judging myself for it.
That feels new.
---
Sleep doesn't come easily, but when it does, it's different. Less violent. Less sharp. I wake once, heart racing, but I calm down faster than usual.
Progress, I think. Even if it's small.
---
The next day brings rain.
Heavy. Sudden. Honest.
I watch it from the window before leaving for work, feeling strangely connected to it. Rain doesn't apologize for falling. It just does what it needs to.
On the bus, a man shouts at the conductor. A child starts crying. Someone's phone rings loudly with an old song.
Life, unfiltered.
I hold onto the pole and steady myself, reminding my body that I am here, now, grown, capable of leaving if I need to.
---
At work, I mess up a small task and apologize unnecessarily. My manager looks at me and says, "It's fine. Fix it and move on."
No anger. No humiliation.
I nod, slightly stunned.
Why did I expect punishment?
The thought lingers longer than it should.
---
In the evening, I receive another message.
I'm glad you told me yesterday, it says.
Most people don't.
I reply after a moment:
Most people weren't taught that silence equals safety.
They don't respond immediately.
When they do, it's just one line.
Maybe now you can teach yourself something else.
I close my eyes.
That sentence lands softly but deeply, like a truth I wasn't ready for but needed.
---
Night again.
I sit on my bed, lights off, city glowing faintly outside. My phone rests beside me, quiet. I don't need it to buzz to know someone exists on the other side of the silence.
For the first time, the cracks inside me don't feel like warnings.
They feel like openings.
Places where light might enter, slowly, carefully, without force.
I place my hand over my chest and listen.
The silence between my heartbeats is still there.
But it no longer feels empty.
It feels alive.
End of Chapter 5