Say A-A-A-A

Before anything else happened today, I was still lying in bed.

Not thinking. Not crying. Just there.

My body felt like something left on pause—my limbs too heavy, my thoughts too slow, my chest too tight. My mood was bugged. My vision kept going blurry for no reason. It wasn't even sadness anymore. Just static.

And then my phone lit up.

Once.

Twice.

I ignored it until I finally turned my head and looked.

Ananda.

I picked up.

"Hello," I said. My voice was barely there—quiet, flat. The kind of voice that comes from somewhere far away, not really mine.

There was a pause. Then her voice, soft but sharp with concern: "Ruru , are you okay?"

I blinked, trying to sound normal. "Yeah. I guess I am. Why, what happened?"

"Who hurt you?" she asked instantly. "Did anybody say anything? Your family? Or... did Nigel say anything?"

The name hit me like it always does—like ice water down the back.

I held back the lump in my throat. "No. Nobody said anything," I whispered. "I'm okay. I am okay."

But Ananda wasn't fooled. We'd been friends for five years. Even when I didn't tell her everything—even when I wore masks so well it fooled even me —Ananda sometimes saw through the cracks. She knew my patterns. She knew how my voice changed when I was trying too hard to be okay.

She didn't push me this time.

Just said, "Do you want to come over?"

"Can I... can I come day after tomorrow?" I asked. "I really need to just lie down somewhere that feels safe. With you."

"You can come whenever you want. I'm always here for you," she said, no hesitation.

Something in my chest loosened a little.

"I'll wait until then," I murmured. "Let's talk later?"

"Okay. Take care, Ruru "

I hung up.

And for a moment, I thought maybe that was enough. That maybe I'd feel okay just knowing I could go to her soon.

But then my stomach twisted. Hard.

I stood up—and everything spun. My knees buckled. I caught the edge of the wall. My fingers were freezing. My body was shaking. My heartbeat felt too slow and too fast at once.

It hit me.

I hadn't eaten.

Not really. Not in days.

And so, I ended up in the kitchen. Not because I was hungry. But because I didn't want to faint again. Because maybe, just maybe, staying alive still mattered.

---

I chose spaghetti marinara. Simple. Nothing special. Nothing complicated. I didn't even want to cook. Cooking was never my thing. Writing, yes. Writing was how I escaped.

Cooking always felt borrowed.

But today, I forced myself.

The scent of garlic hit first. Then tomatoes. I stirred the sauce slowly, My hands were trembling. I could barely keep the spoon steady.

And like always, memories crept in.

I remembered the last time I made this same spaghetti—for Nigel. It wasn't perfect then, but he didn't complain. He smiled. That soft, tired smile he gave me when he liked something. I remember feeling like maybe I was good enough in that moment.

Then I thought about months ago, when I ruined it completely—mushy pasta, watery sauce. He still said it was the best meal he'd had in a while. Still smiled. Still said

I love you.

A word I want to hear from him right now...

Spaghetti

I cooked it today just the way he liked it. Balanced. Not too oily. A little spice. Boiled the pasta until it was al dente.

I plated it carefully, like he was still here. Like it mattered.

But it didn't.

Because this time, it was just me.

I sat down with the plate. Took one bite. Warm. Tangy. Technically fine. But that wasn't the point.

The point was that I tried.

The point was that this was about survival.

When we were together—on calls or across the table—whenever I fed him, I'd always say, "Say a-a-a-a." Our own silly thing. I'd say it when I held a spoon near his mouth or even when I teased him through calls. He'd say it back, sometimes laughing, sometimes low and sweet.

"a-a-a-a."

It was stupid. It was ours.

And now, sitting in silence, I said it softly, out loud. Just once.

But there was no one to answer.

No voice to echo mine.

No one to smile at me and take the bite.

And something in me caved.

The food lodged in my throat like glass. I swallowed hard. Forced myself. Took another bite.

Then ran to the sink and threw it up.

Not because I wanted to.

Not because I planned to.

Because eating without him felt like choking on something that was once beautiful.

I gripped the edge of the sink, trying to breathe. My whole body shaking. The sound of it echoing louder than it should've in my heart.

I washed the dishes slowly. Not because I cared. But because I didn't know what else to do with my hands.

Then I threw the rest of the food in the bin.

And each bite that hit the trash felt like I was throwing away some part of myself. Or what was left of what we had.

---

Later, I sat on my bed with my notebook in my lap.

I didn't write a poem. Not even a line of a story.

I just wrote a note.

To myself.

From the cruelest part of me.

• You did this to yourself, Ru.

You had someone who loved you. A life that was messy, but still yours.

And you destroyed it.

• He messaged you yesterday. Maybe he was trying. Maybe today could've been different.

But you panicked. You called.

You ruined everything.

• Now it's 3 p.m. and you're alone. Again.

And it's your fault.

....

The words blurred, but I didn't cry.

Because even now, I still believed it was all on me.

---

I remembered the call.

The one from yesterday.

The one where the panic crashed into me like a wave that wouldn't break. My chest tightening. Vision spinning. The world going too fast and too loud. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.

So I called him.

I didn't want to cry. But I did. I didn't want to beg. But I did.

He didn't answered. Someone else did.

And I told myself—you shouldn't have called him.

Even while I was breaking, even when I felt like dying, I thought—you're being dramatic. You're selfish. You're weak.

Because even drowning, I didn't want to be a burden.

And now, sitting here, writing this, I still blamed myself.

Because somehow it was easier than asking why the person I loved didn't show up when I needed him the most.

He have his own issues, so i only have me to blame.

---

It's still 3 p.m.

Still the same day.

But time moves strange when your heart's breaking slowly.

And everything just hurts.

Still.