Just Till Evening

After the food, after the panic, after the memories—

I tried to sleep.

Not to rest. Not really. Just to disappear for a while. To escape this version of the day that kept stretching like it had nowhere else to go.

I curled into myself on the bed, blanket tangled around my legs, phone face-down beside me, light leaking through the curtains. My body ached, but it wasn't the kind of ache that sleep could fix. I felt like a bruised version of myself. Not bleeding. Just sore. And quietly breaking.

I shut my eyes.

The silence was thick.

Even that wasn't mine.

Because just as the silence settled, my phone rang.

Shrill. Invasive. Like a needle dragged against glass.

I turned it over without thinking, heart kicking up for no reason at all. And then it stopped.

Papa.

I didn't want to pick up. I didn't have the energy. But avoiding him always ended worse. I knew that pattern too well.

I swiped to answer.

"What are you doing with your life, Rue?"

No hello. No pause.

His voice hit like it always did—sudden, sharp, cruelly loud. The kind of loud that didn't need volume to hurt.

"You haven't called me in days. You haven't even picked up my calls. What is this behavior?"

I sat up, instinctively. Like sitting straight might make me more ready. More safe.

"I was unwell," I said softly.

"You don't get to decide when to talk to your father. You're behaving like a stranger. Like someone I should be ashamed of—"

Ashamed.

I swallowed hard. My fingers gripped the edge of the bedsheet.

His voice kept rising. "You disrespect me with this attitude. What are you doing all day, lying around? Is this what you've become? I raised you better—"

I was about to say sorry. I really was.

But the word stopped at the edge of my tongue.

Sorry for what? For being alive?

For once, I didn't want to be the peacekeeper. For once, I didn't want to be smaller than his disappointment.

I took a breath, my voice shaking but still mine.

"Stop it."

Silence. Then an explosion.

"Rue? That's how you talk to me now? That's how you speak to your father?"

His voice hit a frequency that made my skull ring. Too loud. Too harsh. Too much.

I could hear my heart in my ears. Palpitations rising. My breath turning shallow. A faint dizziness brushing the edges of my vision. The scream, the tone—it didn't just hurt.

It triggered.

Because loud voices weren't just loud for me. They were war drums. Flashbacks. Bruised memories. Doors slamming. People not listening. All the times I'd shrunk into corners with no one noticing.

"I'll talk to you later," I said quickly. "I'm not feeling well right now."

"You're always sick when I call. What kind of excuse—"

I ended the call.

I lied.

I wasn't sick. Not physically, anyway.

But I couldn't do it. Not today. Not like this.

I sat still for a long time, staring at the wall. Not crying. Not shaking. Just… still.

But inside, I was unraveling.

Because if even my own father made me feel like a burden, then who could I run to?

Aurora? Maybe. She'd pick up. She always did. But I didn't want her to worry. I didn't want to make her carry what I couldn't name.

And friends? I had a few.

But even love had limits, didn't it?

The more I ran to people, the more I feared they'd stop showing up. That their kindness would turn into tiredness. That they'd say they cared but in voices that held no warmth.

So I said nothing.

I lay back down. But there was no rest.

Just the crushing stillness of knowing—

I had nowhere to go.

And then came the thoughts.

Soft, slow, dangerous.

The kind of thoughts that didn't scream. That didn't make a scene. That just slipped in like smoke.

I don't want to be here.

I wasn't planning anything. Not consciously. I just felt it. The weight of being alive when nothing made sense. When nothing felt kind. When even the people who claimed to love you made your skin crawl with guilt.

I thought—

If I vanished, would anyone notice?

And then I answered myself—

Nigel would....

And that made everything worse.

Because I didn't even know if that was true anymore.

And still—I wanted it to be.

I wanted him. Only him. In all of this.

I didn't want closure. Didn't want to move on. I wanted him.

Just him.

To hold my hand. To say "Rue, I'm here." To call me baby in that half-joking, half-serious way and still pull me closer. To wrap his arms around me like it meant something.

But he wasn't here.

He hadn't called. He hadn't messaged. Nothing.

And I still waited.

Even while the world collapsed inside me—I waited.

Because I had planned a life around him.

Even when I knew better. Even when I told myself love shouldn't be begged for.

He was still the one I saw in every tomorrow I imagined.

I stared at the ceiling, tracing invisible cracks I knew weren't really there.

The ache was full-body now. My skin hurt. My chest burned. My head throbbed.

But the real pain was the emptiness. The knowing.

That I didn't want to die.

But I didn't want to live like this either.

I just wanted it to stop.

To stop needing someone who kept choosing silence.

To stop hoping.

To stop being me—so full of feeling it made everything impossible.

---

At around 5:40 p.m., I went to the kitchen.

Not for a meal. Not even with the full intention of eating.

Just for a piece of bread. Something simple. Small enough to not feel like nourishment. Just enough to say you're still here.

My feet dragged against the tiles. I stood in front of the bread box for a full minute before opening it. One slice. Plain. No butter. No jam. Just bread.

I didn't realize my mother saw me going in the kitchen in until she spoke.

"You're eating in the evening?"

Her tone wasn't sharp, not exactly. But surprised. Curious. Her eyes scanned me up and down, the way she do when she doesn't want to fight or care she just comment on thing comment At . At my tired. At my hollow.

I didn't respond.

She chuckled, a little awkwardly. "Probably because you're stressed, I guess?"

Another pause.

I didn't say anything.

Because I didn't know what to say.

Was I supposed to joke back? Make it light?

Was I supposed to explain the panic, the bread, the pain of being called out while holding food?

I just stood there, holding the slice near my lips.

Frozen.

Eating it would mean doing something for myself. It might even help—just a little. Stress eating wasn't ideal, but sometimes it numbed the shaking. Sometimes it gave the ache something else to focus on.

But getting noticed for eating? That made it worse. It always did.

That split-second of shame. That feeling that maybe eating meant I was being watched. Measured. Judged.

So I stood there—bread in hand, lips parted, breath shallow—confused if I should eat it or not.

The hunger didn't win.

But the exhaustion did.

I took a small bite. Mechanical. Like chewing cardboard. It didn't taste like anything. Just a way to survive another hour.

Then I walked back to my room. Quietly. Slowly. With the kind of heaviness that belonged to the unseen.

---

By 6:30 p.m., the sky outside had turned a dusty gray.

My phone buzzed.

But it wasn't him.

Just a message.

I laughed. A single sound. Short, bitter, disbelieving.

Somewhere in me, a thought sparked—

Maybe I should tell Ananda I'm not okay.

But I didn't.

Because she'd already heard it before. And I didn't want to be the girl always breaking.

I wanted someone to check on me without me having to ask.

But no one did. Atleast not now

---

At 7 p.m., I was still lying on my side, wrapped in my blanket like a body at sea.

Not asleep. Not awake.

Just… waiting.

Still hoping he'd text.

Still hoping something would shift.

Still clinging to a future that only I seemed to believe in.