I pick myself up from my bed after spending 4 hours crying my heart out. I find my way to the bay window across the room. I glance out at the sky and see the sun gently sinking herself… I looked down on the lawn and watch my little brother playing with his toy car. He seemed really happy. Little did he know, what his own sister is going through…
I can vaguely hear my favourite sitcom playing on TV. Must be my father’s desperate efforts to cheer me up.
I now find myself staring at nothing in particular. The events of yesterday night rush through my head so fast and scratch my heart again and again. It was the night I lost my best friend to someone so pathetic. I never knew our friendship was so fragile. It was the night every ‘is’ turned into a ‘was’. It was the night my choices were jeered. It was the night I lost all things fake.
I try to slowly melt away all the hateful words that were stabbed into me. I still can feel the wound in my heart. I try to accept the reality. I try to accept the fact that my friendship was materialistic to people. I try to accept the fact that I was the cup to someone’s thirst not the water itself. I try. I can only try.
I can still feel the tears on my cheeks. I wipe them away with my hands. The hands, which always wanted to be there for a friend. The hands, which were always there to lend. The hands, which always wanted to help. The hands, which now comforts no one but me.
I realised, I have to support myself. I have to anchor my dreams. I have to be my own best friend. I am sure, eventually I will find my real friend, but until then I need to take care of myself. No one can appreciate my choices more than me. I need myself.
I walk over to my washroom and wash my face. I let the cold water take away all the dirt from my life. I let the pain wash away. I let the agony drain. I let everything loose. I dry my face and look at the mirror. I see someone new. She is independent. She is free. She is pure. She is calm. She is me.
When life pushed me into a pit, I hit the refresh button. The scars might still be there, but now it is a reminder to think of every full stop as the end of a chapter and not the end of a story…
I’m proud of the scars in my soul. They remind me that I have an intense life.
From the not so-