COUNTING THE LAST PART OF MYSELF

The wedding day is near.

Not mine—hers.

Soon she will walk down an aisle, wearing the smile that once belonged to me, holding the hand of the man she truly deserves. And I… I will not be there. I will be here, in this room, counting the last pieces of myself.

The room is dim. Curtains pulled tight, cigarette smoke clinging to the ceiling like a ghost refusing to leave. Empty bottles and crumpled packets scatter the floor like fallen soldiers from a war I’ve been fighting alone. The silence is heavy, broken only by the sound of my lighter clicking open, flame touching paper, another cigarette coming to life.

I inhale. The smoke fills my lungs, and with it comes her face.

Always her face.

Four years… four years since she walked away. And yet, I swear, every corner of this world still whispers her name. I tried to run from her. I traveled, I climbed mountains, I stood at the edge of rivers where the world felt endless. But even there, she followed. In every stranger’s smile, I thought it was her. In every pair of eyes, I searched for her reflection. And when I looked closer—nothing. Just strangers. Just emptiness.

I am going mad. Not because she’s gone, but because she never truly left.

Now it’s only me, locked away. This room has become my coffin, and I am alive inside it. Far from family, far from friends, far from the streets where we once laughed under flickering streetlights.

I close my eyes, and I’m back there.

Her laughter spilling into the night, her hand slipping into mine, her voice promising forever. The sound of it echoes even now, louder than the silence around me. She may have broken that promise, but I… I am still holding it like a burning rope, even as it tears my hands apart.

I drink. I smoke. I let the ashes fall like snow around me. I try to drown the memories, but the more I drink, the clearer they become. The more I smoke, the closer I feel to her. She’s in the smoke, in the glass, in the quiet hum of the night.

I was once someone else.

A man who laughed too easily, who believed in forever.

Now I’m just a shadow, waiting for nothing, living without hope, existing without tomorrow.

And yet, in this emptiness, I still find her.

Not in reality, not in flesh—but in every memory that refuses to die.

This is my story.

Not of love. Not of loss. But of the man who stayed behind when she walked away.

The story of how promises outlived the lovers who made them.

The story of me.

Hi, I am Mandiv. What you are holding in your hands is not just a book—it is a part of me. These pages carry pieces of my life, both the present I am living and the past that shaped me. I will share with you the moments that broke me, the memories that carried me far from the world, and the treasures I still hold close to my heart. This is not just a story—it is my truth. And as you read, I hope you will walk with me, not as a reader, but as a silent companion .

25th October 2019 – Saturday Morning

The world outside was waking up. Birds chirped from the trees, their voices carried on the cool October breeze that whispered of winter’s arrival. The air felt fresh, sharp, alive.

A knock came at my door.

“Son, wake up. Breakfast is ready,” Mom called softly.

Still wrapped in sleep, I muttered, “Maa… just ten more minutes.”

The door creaked open. She stepped in, sunlight following her through the curtains. With one swift motion, she pulled my blanket aside, breaking my comfort.

“No more sleeping,” she said with a playful sternness. “If you don’t get ready now, you’ll miss the bus.”

Mom never let me slack when it came to school. She always made sure I was up, fresh, and ready long before 7:30—because the bus never waited, and my school was far, almost sixteen kilometers away.

Half-asleep but smiling, I dragged myself up, washed my face, and walked into the kitchen. The smell caught me first—warm rice, dal, eggs, and fried potatoes.

“Mom, what’s for breakfast today?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

She looked at me with that smile only mothers carry. “Rice, dal, egg, and fried potatoes.”

My mood shifted instantly. “Wow, my favorite!”

She chuckled, scooped food onto my plate, and fed me the first bite with her hand. “I’ll cook all your favorite dishes, as long as you study well, my son.”

From the corner, Dad folded down his newspaper, smirking. “You love him too much. One day, this boy will forget how to grow up.”

Mom and I exchanged a quick glance and laughed softly, as if we knew something he didn’t.

After breakfast, I grabbed my bag. Mom fussed over me at the door, fixing my collar, checking my shoes, making sure I looked neat.

“Go carefully,” she said, pressing her hand against my head in blessing.

Then Dad, pretending to be strict, slipped a folded note into my hand. “Don’t waste it, okay? Pocket money is for smart kids, not lazy ones.”

I grinned, hiding the note in my pocket. “Thanks, Dad.”

As I stepped out into the cold morning air, the long road stretched ahead, the bus waiting far away at the end. I turned once to wave.

Mom stood in the doorway, watching me with her endless care. Dad was beside her, pretending not to smile.

And in that moment, walking toward my school bus, I felt rich—not because of pocket money, not even because of the food, but because of the love that followed me everywhere I went.

I climbed onto the bus as usual, no worries in my head, no tension about life. Just the road, the morning breeze, and the soft hum of the engine carrying us forward.

I leaned against the window, watching the world slide by—the fields stretching far into the distance, the trees swaying gently, the sunlight breaking through the clouds in golden stripes. The cold October air touched my face, and for a moment, everything felt light, simple, free.

Finally, the bus rolled into school. The gate stood tall, the compound already alive with voices and footsteps. I walked straight to my classroom, bag slung on my shoulder, and dropped into my seat.

I waited for my friends, Abhi and Bittu. But the benches around me were empty, their laughter missing. After a few minutes, I stood and wandered down the stairs.

The school was buzzing with life. Everyone had come with new energy, fresh hope, and the small adventures that only a school day could bring. Some were busy teasing and flirting, some laughing with their groups, others rushing to finish homework before the bell. The air was full of noise, yet it all felt like music.

As I reached the compound, a familiar voice cut through. Bittu spotted me, waving with that big grin of his.

“Hey, Bro! Over here!”

I walked over, and just like always, we started chatting about nothing and everything—the kind of talks only friends understand. Slowly, one by one, more of our friends gathered, forming small circles of laughter, chatter, and shared secrets.

It wasn’t just another school day. It was another chapter of our youth—ordinary, but alive.

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