Chapter 1: The Drought of Light
1.1: The Cracked Window
I didn’t mean to sit here today. I really didn’t.
But there’s a strange silence that hits when you turn 23 and realize you’re not where you thought you’d be.. not in the world, not in your mind, not in your skin. It doesn't knock. It just arrives. Like fog. Like rain.
That’s how I ended up back at this desk.
It’s the one I grew up with.. same corner, same uneven legs. The chair still wobbles slightly when I shift my weight, as if unsure whether to hold me up or let me fall. I haven’t written anything in a while. Not really. I’ve typed, emailed, performed, functioned. But I haven’t written. Not the kind of writing that costs something.
And God knows I’ve paid enough in quiet.
The window across from me is cracked. Not broken.. just enough to remind me that time passes even when we try to hold it still. It’s been like that for years, but I never fixed it. I keep telling myself it’s harmless. But the truth is, I recognize myself in it.
Strong. Useful. Slightly damaged. Never openly broken. But just enough to blur the view.
It’s strange being the eldest child. No one warns you about it. They talk about responsibility and maturity like they’re awards... not scars. You learn to celebrate quietly. To endure loudly. You become the example others follow, even when you don’t know where you’re going. You learn how to speak without sounding tired. How to cry without making noise. How to doubt yourself silently, in rooms full of applause.
There are moments I do something good.. finish a project, help someone, survive another mental collapse.. and for a flicker of a second, I expect something inside to light up. Like a candle. Or a sunbeam.
But it doesn’t.
It’s like clapping for yourself in an empty theatre. You hear the sound, but not the joy.
That’s what self-doubt does. It’s not always loud. Sometimes, it’s the absence of feeling when you know you should feel proud.
I looked out the cracked window. The street outside was alive in the usual way.. people moving with fake purpose, cars humming toward nowhere, a couple arguing without sound. Everyone seemed to be chasing something.. a career, a body, a person.
Me? I was just trying to chase the part of myself I lost somewhere between responsibility and resilience.
And then, like reflex, my hand moved.
Pen. Paper. A sentence. No hesitation.
“I don’t know what I’m missing. I just know something is.”
I didn’t know if I was writing to myself or from myself.
I didn’t know if I was starting a story or finishing a thought.
But I knew the rain inside had begun again.
And this time, I didn’t want to stop it.
"Even when I win, I lose a little.
The silence after applause is the loudest part of me"
