Prologue — The Night I Almost Let Go
The night was quiet ,too quiet for a city that never slept.
The walls of the small apartment in Lanseria seemed to close in on me, echoing the rhythm of my heartbeat ,slow, tired, uneven. The desk lamp flickered weakly beside a half-empty cup of coffee. My phone lay face down, silent for the twelfth hour in a row.
I stared at it as if it owed me an explanation.
As if silence could speak.
There was a message I had typed three hours ago “Are we still okay?”
But I never sent it.
Because deep down, I already knew the answer.
My reflection in the dark window looked nothing like the boy who once believed in forever. The mirror showed someone else ,a stranger wearing exhaustion, loneliness, and disappointment like a second skin.
Outside, rain dripped down the glass. The sound was slow, steady, almost hypnotic. My logbook lay open beside me , flight hours scribbled in neat handwriting. 142 hours logged. Hundreds of landings. Yet, the one thing I couldn’t land safely anymore… was us.
I looked at the photograph on the table ,Riya and I at Marine Drive, laughing under the monsoon sky. I remembered how she’d said, “No matter where you go, I’ll always be here.”
But promises fade too, don’t they? Especially when stretched across oceans.
The air was heavy.
The world outside slept while my mind screamed.
And then, for the first time, the thought crept in - quiet, soft, terrifying.
What if I just stop?
Stop feeling.
Stop trying.
Stop existing.
The idea scared me, not because I wanted to die, but because for the first time, it didn’t feel impossible.
I stood by the window, eyes fixed on the sky where planes blinked like fading stars.
And I wondered , what happens when the dream that once gave you wings, becomes the reason you fall?
That night, I wrote her one last letter : a confession, a cry for help, a goodbye wrapped in memories.
It began with a line I never thought I’d write:
“Riya, if you ever read this, please know I tried.”
