Chapter 3: Festive Silence

Elira had barely slept.

The mattress smelled faintly of old regrets and mildew — a combination Elira was starting to get used to. After another restless night of tossing and turning, she gave up on sleep altogether. When her eyes opened, the sky outside was still a dull grey, not yet ready to commit to morning.

The apartment was cold. The kind of still cold that doesn't come from weather, but from absence — of movement, of warmth, of noise.

She didn't bother with slippers as she dragged herself to the bathroom. The water that hit her skin was sharp, biting — a cold shower that jolted her into the present. She welcomed the sting. It was the only thing that felt honest.

Wrapped in a towel, she stood in front of the mirror, avoiding her own reflection. 

Managed to get dressed and ready for the day.

By the time she stepped outside, the city had already started to wake. 

String lights curled around lampposts, the air smelled faintly of fried sweets and incense, and families in coordinated outfits posed for blurry phone pictures in front of bright storefronts. Street vendors were setting up, arguing with each other like clockwork. Somewhere nearby, drums were being tested — not in rhythm yet, just random bursts of celebration waiting for structure. Elira stood still for a moment, letting the festive cheer wash over her — but none of it reached her.

Elira started to walk slowly. Not out of peace, but because her body was heavy. Her head, heavier.

It was supposed to be beautiful — this time of year. People came back home for this. They decorated, reunited, made amends. 

The city always dressed up like it was trying to cover a wound with glitter.

She stopped at a corner where the bakery used to be. It had closed two years ago, but for some reason, the scent of cinnamon hit her nose just then.

Her chest tightened. Not painfully — not yet. But enough to slow her breath.

It wasn't loneliness.

It was strangerhood — like watching the world celebrate through a pane of glass.

She remembered the last festival at home.

And just like that —

A memory.

✧ Flashback — The night before the festive celebration.

The house was loud in that warm, familiar way.

Elira and her cousins argued over where to hang the lights, getting tangled in wires and laughter, while her mother shouted instructions from the kitchen while cooking. The scent of cardamom and roasted nuts wafted through the rooms. Her brother walked past, face buried in his phone, barely acknowledging the chaos around him.

The living room buzzed with half-cleaned corners and open boxes of old decorations. Between giggles and scoldings, there was a kind of joy only shared tradition brings.

And yet, Elira felt… detached.

She smiled, she played along — but her thoughts were already drifting elsewhere. Toward the flights she hadn't booked yet. Toward the future no one else saw for her.

That night, when the house finally quieted after midnight, she sat at her desk, journal open, pen hovering. She tried to write it all down — the ache, the longing, the dreams that felt too big for that house. But every sentence looked like rebellion.

✧ Festival Day — Lunch Table

The entire extended family gathered, bright outfits and brighter voices filling the room. It was loud and crowded, the way festival lunches always were.

Elira had barely taken her third bite when her aunt, in between compliments about the curry, asked:

"So, what now? Settle down, right? You've already made it. You're a doctor — that's everything!"

Polite laughter bubbled around the table.

Elira hesitated. Then, gently, vulnerably:

"Actually, I want to move abroad. Maybe build something of my own someday… start a foundation, write—"

Her mother cut in, voice soft but firm:

"Dreams should stay close to the ground. The sky looks nice, but it's not where real life happens."

Someone chuckled, "She watches too many dramas."

Then came her brother, tone smug and careless:

"Watch — she might call us from some corner of the world one day, broke and lost."

More laughter. Less kind this time.

Elira smiled tightly. Swallowed her words along with her food.

Later that evening...

The guests had left. The house had returned to its quieter rhythm. Elira stood at the sink, rinsing plates under lukewarm water.

Her father approached gently, drying a dish beside her.

"You know your mother means well."

Elira didn't look up. She just nodded.

"I know."

She didn't say: That doesn't make it easier.

✧ Back to Present

Elira sat in a small corner of a run-down guesthouse, sipping lukewarm tea. No noise. No lights. But no one to interrupt either.

She opened her laptop. Fingers hovered for a moment… then began to type.

She wasn't sure if it was a plan or just a release. But it was hers.

"Maybe dreams don't need permission. Just quiet determination."

She glanced at the peeling walls. The mattress behind her sagged in the middle, its springs audible every time she moved.

The place she found last-minute… was barely livable. Rusty pipes, a stubborn ceiling leak, and a mattress that smelled of someone else's regrets.

She exhaled, long and slow.

Two days here, and she already knew—she had to find something else. Nothing fancy. Just… survivable.