"Some days don't hurt loudly. They break you in quiet places."
It started like any other morning. Soft light through the window. His mother's footsteps in the kitchen. The smell of tea rising through the house. The quiet hiss of boiling milk, the clink of a spoon in a cup. It was all so normal. But normal didn't reach him that day.
Something inside him felt off. Not like sickness. Not like fear. Just a deep, dull weight in the center of his chest. Like someone had placed a stone there overnight. He looked at the calendar, saw nothing marked. No date to remember, no reason for this feeling. Yet it stayed.
He got ready for school, slower than usual. His shirt didn't sit right. His shoes felt tighter. Everything felt one size too small for the kind of heartache growing inside him. He didn't tell his mother. He didn't want to worry her. He just smiled, picked up his bag, and left.
The walk to school felt longer. Each step was heavy. Even the dogs that usually barked at him just lay still. The world looked the same but felt distant. Like a photograph slightly out of focus.
In class, the teacher wrote on the board. Long numbers. Words in English. A map of Nepal. He tried to listen. But the words melted together. His notebook stayed empty. His pen barely moved.
During group reading, his name was called. "Krish, your turn." He blinked. Stared at the paragraph. He opened his mouth, but the letters danced away. "Pass," he whispered. The class didn't laugh. They just moved on. That made it worse.
At lunch, he sat alone. He opened his tiffin. Rice, lentils, and a small piece of fried potato. Usually his favorite. But he didn't touch it. Just stared. He remembered how Papa would always say, "Hot food heals a tired soul." But the food was cold now. And his soul was tired.
He stayed back after school. The playground emptied slowly. He sat under the neem tree, the same one where he used to draw pictures of birds and dream of being seen. The wind moved through the leaves. It whispered something. But he didn't understand it. He closed his eyes. Wished he could disappear for a while.
When he reached home, his mother noticed immediately. "You're not okay," she said. He shook his head, like always. But she touched his face. Her palm rested on his cheek, warm and trembling. "You're warm," she said. "Maybe just tired," he lied.
She made soup anyway. The kind Papa loved. Simple. Light. Ginger and garlic. He sat at the table, holding the bowl in both hands. Each sip felt like something was trying to mend inside him. But the cracks were too deep.
After dinner, the power went out. A sudden blackout. The village often lost light without warning. But tonight, it felt different. Like even the electricity knew he needed darkness. They lit a candle in the center of the room. Its glow flickered softly, casting shadows on the wall.
He sat there, watching the light move. One shadow stretched long and tall. For a second, it looked like Papa. Leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Smiling gently. He blinked. The shadow shifted.
His mother sat beside him. She saw it too. They didn't say anything. Words would ruin it. Instead, she reached for his hand. Held it like he was five again. And slowly, quietly, he began to cry.
Not loud. Not shaking. Just soft tears falling onto his lap. His shoulders didn't move. His face stayed still. But his eyes poured. Like they had been waiting all day.
She didn't say, "Don't cry." She didn't wipe his tears. She just held his hand. And stayed. Because sometimes, love is not in words. It's in presence. In the choice to sit in silence with someone's ache.
Later that night, when the lights returned, he walked into his room. Sat on the bed. Opened the drawer quietly. And pulled out the wristwatch. Papa's. It hadn't ticked in months. But tonight, it felt alive.
He held it for a long time. Pressed it against his chest. Then slid it under his pillow. Where it used to stay. Where it belonged.
He lay down. The sky outside was clear. Stars scattered gently. He whispered, "I don't know why today hurts more, Papa. But it does."
He waited. Not for an answer. But just to say it out loud. Because some days don't need fixing. They just need to be felt.
And on that day that almost broke him, he didn't shatter. He bent. He cried. He remembered. And he loved.