MENTAL ARC: THE UNBELIEVABLE

June 08, 2089

The morning was serene but carried a tinge of finality. Sunlight spilled across the dining table, highlighting the faint scratches and memories etched into the wood from years of family meals. Breakfast was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the past few days.

I kept my head down, focusing on the plate in front of me. My mother had made my favourite—parathas and yogurt—but the food tasted bland, overshadowed by the weight of the goodbyes yet to come. My father sat across from me, reading the paper but glancing over every so often. My mother busied herself tidying up, but her movements were slower, her glances more frequent.

As I folded the last paratha and took a bite, I broke the silence. "I've packed most of my things," I said casually, as if trying to normalize my departure. "I should leave soon if I want to reach before dark."

My mother paused, her hand lingering on a plate. "So soon?" she said, though her voice lacked the edge of protest it had carried yesterday.

"You know how things are at college," I said lightly, leaning back in my chair. "There's always something to catch up on. I'm fine, though, really. Everything's fine. Don't worry about me."

Her lips tightened, as if holding back words she didn't know how to express. My father folded the paper neatly, setting it aside. "At least let me drive you back," he said, his voice calm but insistent.

"Dad, that's not necessary," I replied quickly, shaking my head. "It's a long drive, and I've already booked a cab. I'll be fine."

"I'd feel better if I saw you off myself," he said, his brows furrowed with concern.

"I appreciate it," I said, forcing a smile. "But I'll be fine. Really. You both need to rest—you've had enough on your plates the last few days."

My mother sighed softly but didn't press the matter. My father looked at me for a long moment, then gave a reluctant nod. "Just call when you reach," he said firmly.

"I will," I promised, standing up to leave the table. "Thanks for breakfast."

By mid-morning, my cab had arrived, a faded white sedan with a driver who looked barely older than me. My parents stood in the doorway, my mother's hand resting lightly on my father's arm. They both looked like they wanted to say more, but I gave them a quick wave and ducked into the car before the moment could stretch into something heavier.

The cab rattled to life, pulling away from the house. I leaned my head against the window, watching as the familiar streets blurred past. A pang of guilt tugged at my chest, but I pushed it aside. Staying longer wouldn't have changed anything.

The hum of the car's engine and the occasional bump of the road filled the silence. The driver had tried to make small talk earlier, but I wasn't in the mood, and he had given up quickly. Now, I sat alone with my thoughts, which were anything but comforting.

I had told my parents I was fine, but the truth was far from it. The closer I got to the city, the more the emptiness inside me seemed to expand. The weight of everything I hadn't said—about my memory lapses, about the lingering grief—pressed down on me like a heavy shroud.

I took out my phone, scrolling aimlessly through messages and social media, searching for a distraction. The projects and assignments waiting for me at college seemed distant, like they belonged to someone else's life. The person I had been before felt like a stranger, someone I couldn't quite remember.

The scenery outside shifted as the cab neared the outskirts of the city. Buildings began to rise in the distance, their silhouettes stark against the sky. The sun was beginning to dip lower, casting long shadows across the road.

I let out a slow breath, closing my eyes for a moment, trying to steady myself. But the ache in my chest wouldn't go away. It wasn't just grief—it was something deeper, something I couldn't name. The sense that I was losing myself, piece by piece, and no one else could see it.

The cab slowed as we entered the city, the hum of activity growing louder. Cars honked impatiently, and the streets were alive with people moving in every direction. I glanced at my phone, half-heartedly checking the time. Just a little longer, I thought, and I'd be back in the familiar chaos of the hostel. Maybe there, I could bury myself in work, drown out the noise in my head.

The cab came to a stop at a small clearing near the market square, a few streets away from my hostel. The driver turned to me with a practiced, polite smile. "We're here, sir." I nodded, fishing out my wallet and handing him the fare. "Thanks," I muttered, my voice barely audible over the honking and chatter that had engulfed the area. Stepping out of the cab, I took a deep breath, the scent of the city immediately filling my senses—faint diesel from the nearby traffic, the earthy aroma of freshly watered plants lining the road, and the tantalizing whiff of spices from the market stalls. This place, with all its noise and chaos, was supposed to feel like home, like the space where I belonged. Instead, it felt alien. The air felt heavier here, thick with the familiar smells of exhaust, street food, and the faint metallic tang of the city's pulse. A part of me welcomed the noise and chaos; it distracted me from the silence that always threatened to swallow me whole.

Shouldering my bag, I started walking towards the hostel, the streets now familiar after years of tracing the same path. The afternoon sun hung heavy in the sky, its light casting sharp, shifting shadows across the ground as I moved past crowded shops and quiet alleyways. My steps were slow, almost reluctant, as if my feet knew what my heart didn't want to admit—I wasn't ready to return.

I passed the tea stall I often visited on my late-night study runs. The sight of the old vendor wiping down the wooden counter stirred something faint and bittersweet. Further down the road, the bookstore stood, its window display still cluttered with the same dusty paperbacks it had always housed. I hadn't gone inside in months, though I used to stop by every week. Life had a way of pulling me away from the things that once grounded me, and I hadn't even noticed when the shift began.

As I walked, my mind wandered, retracing the events of the past week. My mother's quiet worry, my father's subdued glances, the suffocating closeness of family during the funeral—all of it blended into a messy blur. The funeral, the quiet conversations, my parents' concern—it all felt like a foggy dream, a series of moments I had drifted through without truly being present. I thought about my father's insistence on driving me back, the way he had looked at me like he could see through my forced smiles. I thought about my mother's hand on my arm, her gentle plea for me to talk. But the thing that gnawed at me the most wasn't what had happened. It was what hadn't.

Why didn't I tell them? The question hung in my mind, taunting me. I had spent hours in that house, surrounded by the people who knew me best, and I hadn't spoken a single word about what truly weighed on me. The memory lapses. The moments of disorientation that crept up on me when I least expected it. The way I'd look at old photos and struggle to remember where they had been taken or how I'd felt at the time. It wasn't like I didn't want to; part of me ached to open up, to spill everything I'd been holding back. But every time I tried, the words felt trapped, caught behind some invisible barrier I couldn't break through. How could I explain something I didn't even fully understand?

I wanted to tell them, especially my mother. She had always been the one I could talk to about anything, but this felt different. It wasn't just forgetting—it was losing pieces of myself, and I couldn't bear to see the worry deepen in her eyes. So I told myself what I always did: Later. Maybe later.

The streets grew quieter as I neared the turn to my hostel. My bag felt heavier with every step, the ache in my chest echoing the familiar weight of fatigue. I passed a small group of students chatting animatedly outside a café, their laughter rising above the din of the street. It was strange, how their lives seemed untouched by the heaviness I carried. I envied them for a moment, their lightness, their oblivion.

Crossing the road, I stepped onto the quieter lane leading to my hostel. Trees lined the path, their branches swaying gently in the breeze, their leaves scattering dappled light on the asphalt. The silence here was soothing, a stark contrast to the chaos of the main street. I focused on the rhythm of my steps, the sound of my shoes against the ground the only thing tethering me to the present.

It wasn't until I was halfway down the lane that I noticed a car slowing as it approached from behind. I stepped to the side, allowing it to pass, my gaze fixed on the road ahead. But something—an instinct, maybe—made me glance up just as the car moved past me.

Now it isn't like I wanted to look, but somehow, my eyes were lifted by their own, but obviously had no will no looking to someone else at that moment, but who will believe me what I saw at that exact moment.

It was her. It was definitely her. The one I had never seen in these few years was somehow captured in my eyes again. Could I stay the same seeing this sight?? Maybe….