A gigantic stage and an even bigger sky expanded before my little eyes. The stage was simple, plain, monotonous and grey. The sky, on the other hand, was magnificent, lined with bursts of cottony clouds that obstructed the intensity of the sun.

There was a lean mic on the stage, waiting to be grappled by some human. Beyond the mic and the stage, many humans in a variety of ages were organised in tiny rows and columns.

As I consumed the silent view in front of me, I realised that the human supposed to go on stage was me. There was no announcement and no secret message delivery. I just knew. And the moment I knew, the serenity of the scene dissolved rapidly, accompanied by the rising drumbeats within my heart.

Slowly, the seconds turned into excruciating minutes, and the expectant silence of the stage, the mic, the sky, and the humans beneath it gnawed at my heart. I was supposed to go on, and I sincerely didn’t want to.

I wished for all possible obstacles. Maybe the mic wouldn’t work? Or maybe the clouds win the battle and pour over the humans of various ages? Or maybe the stage breaks down, but without physically harming anyone.

But the thing that I wished for the most was for my heart to just keep calm and not act like we were in a fatal situation. It beat so fast and irregularly that it seemed my heart would rather jump out of my body and join the others than face them with me.

The horrific scene and silence persisted. The time kept rolling, and my heart kept waging war with me.

It was as if my heart was caged.

A casual setting and a casual conversation for information exchange, but a valuable one at that. Soon, a question came my way that threw me off balance in a jiffy. I was unnerved and confused as the question indicated something I hadn’t done. It was more like a soft accusation.

In my moment of confusion, I feigned calmness and politely ventured to understand more about the accusation. Meanwhile, my heart started doing the dance, obliterating the pleasantness of the atmosphere.

With a few more sentences thrown back and forth, it was clear that the accusation was solid and nowhere to go. It was directed at me, and I was supposed to answer. While my heart trumpeted against its limits, I thought of possible answers to display my diligence. I had to go on and speak, but I sincerely didn’t want to.

I wished for immediate conversation terminators to materialise. Maybe a phone call for either of us conversationalists, or maybe an admittance that the whole thing was a mistake, and the question was not for me?

Alas, no such thing happened, and the awkward silence persisted for a few more seconds. Eventually, the questioner waved off the inquisition and changed the subject.

My heart kept beating for a long time after that.

An ominous silence washed over all of us in the room. My loved ones’ faces were lined with severe disappointment and feelings of betrayal. They huffed and swung their heads sideways to express what a colossal disaster I had been. They narrated their expectations and how my past behaviour aligned perfectly with the glorious expectations.

They proclaimed that this change in course, this moving away from expectations, was the work of an external demon. It could not be me. It could never be me.

I was always naive and emotional. I couldn’t make such a decision on my own. Clearly, I was misled and brainwashed into believing that being the colossal disaster was the way to go forward.

I looked at their pained and horrified expressions. Their sweet narrations of my childhood and my past. Their proclamations of my deceased innocence and benevolence. And the deceased self.

Their dismissals of my agency.

Their implicit indication that my decision was not worth believing or taking a chance.

I thought of pointing out the inconsistencies in the narrations. I thought of admitting that living up to expectations was not an easy and benevolent task. It was exhausting and never-ending. The expectations keep piling up. Always.

But mostly, I hoped for miracles. I hoped for more colossal disasters to happen around us. I hoped for not to be the odd one out. Days and nights building up to this confrontation, I hoped for a normalisation of colossal disasters.

My heart drummed against its own cage, willing to join my loved ones in the disappointment process. It was fiercely fighting for its own agency.

The silence grew as the accusations and disappointments hung in the air. Their loving eyes were demanding a solution, more in the direction of compliance. I had to offer a solution, and I sincerely didn’t want to.

Overwhelmed by my heart and the unfairness of always living up to expectations, I realised no miracles were going to happen. No manifestations were going to work, and no one was going to come rescue me. A fact accentuated by the betrayal of my own heart.

I realised that for everything that ever raised my heartbeats unnaturally, it was I who had eventually faced the ordeal, with sincere reluctance, of course.

I had eventually walked over the stage, fumbled with the mic and the words and my voice. I had finished the task, with mediocre quality, but at least I had done it. Since then, I faced an audience several times, and I resolved to fumble and quiver a little less with every chance I got. Likewise, when snide comments and accusations were thrown my way, I accepted their inevitability and made my way to better work. So that at least the doubtful voices in my head and the drumbeats of my heart were drowned.

Slowly, I raised my voice and contradicted my loved ones. I talked about the inconsistencies and the consequences I bore and the ones that I’ll bear in the future. As I laid out different arguments, commanding the narrative and also enmeshing my agency within each scenario, everyone’s eyes widened.

I was contradicting their image of me, but mostly I was contradicting myself. I was showing a change, or maybe a trait which has always been there but hiding and biding its time?

Like everything else in my life, I didn’t do a convincing job. I was still a colossal disaster. A massive disappointment. And maybe there is a slight possibility that I won’t ever be appreciated, unless of course I comply and align with the expectations.

But I tried to make things better and also calm my heart down. With each piercing and defeated look, it does get riling again. But it is eventually me who goes on the stage and resolves to battle again, and again.

And again.

The Palpitations was originally published in Age of Empathy on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I had deep purple and pink patches over my hands, face, and neck. This was a few years ago, and we had a blast during the Holi celebrations, a festival of colors in India — smearing everyone with colors mixed mischievously with water for everlasting effects. And there I sat, with some everlasting impact on my arms and face, at the table for evening dinner.

The glass table covered with patterned white cloth buzzed with stories of the Holi afternoon and anticipation of food. People gathered at and around the table, all enthusiastic in the spirit of the joyful festival. Finally, when dinner started, you walked in and filled the empty seat beside me. You had patches of colors on your face, too, but much lighter than mine. Lucky, I thought. We weren’t great friends then, so we smiled at each other and dug into our plates immediately.

After a while, you asked me in a low and a bit intimidating voice: “Do you regret spending ‘x’ amount for this dinner?” The food was underwhelming, and since you were among those who organized the dinner at that venue, I didn’t want to complain about it straight to your face. I decided to be diplomatic and said: “No, the food is fine.” To this, you replied: “Well, I regret it!” And you smiled, and I chuckled harder than I should have had — my loud chuckle admitting that the food was not okay.

And then started a neverending series of laughter, chuckles, sparkles, and sunshine.

I had been waiting for a result for around three months. It had been so long that when the email arrived, I had forgotten about it. The mail was lengthy, with the result hidden somewhere in between the sophisticated paragraphs. It took me a while to realize that the result was excellent and probably the best I could get. I texted you the screenshot immediately.

You called me to meet as soon as possible.

I rushed to meet you somewhere between the long roads. You read the mail carefully and looked at me with misty and proud eyes. I hadn’t seen someone as happy as you were for me ever in my life. The thought of the result or whatever I was feeling about it slowly slipped from my mind.

I don’t know if the result was an achievement, but befriending you certainly was.

Something was bothering me immensely. An intrusive thought was circulating inside my head like an annoying housefly. I wanted to let it out but was afraid of judgment. I didn’t feel it was appropriate to think things that way. But I had you, and I decided to tell you.

I narrated the overthinking bit from my dear brain to you. You sat under the wide-branched tree and listened to me intently. You nodded your head and expressed that you understood what I felt.

I felt instantly relieved, and my brain’s sticky and annoying housefly fled for its life.

I texted you a big thank you while returning to the room.

For creating a space for me to narrate all of my overindulged musings — from the wildest to the silliest to the weirdest!

There was a project I was working on for a while now. The deadline was near, and I was busy rounding it up before the final date. You consistently, but not too intrusively, enquired about how I was doing and if I had finished it.

I often replied with, “This work is not getting over! It goes on and on!”

You assured me that it would be over soon. I just had to keep at it. When I was about to finish the work, I texted you and let myself be emotionally free. I decided to voice my fears without much grace. I exclaimed that I would cry if my work was not received well after the evaluation. This was the most I had worked for anything in my life.

You asked me not to think about what would happen next and advised me to focus on doing my best now. You texted that whatever is written, only the best will happen for me. You firmly believed that.

Surely, the result of my project is uncertain, and it will be a while before I hear anything about it.

But I starred your messages and noticed that the starred affirmations were increasing rapidly while being the treasure trove of the delightful things you said to me over the years.

You increase my list of thank yous every moment. You bring double the packs of snacks I ask for. You swerve your vehicle in a second to pick me up from the scariest of roads. You find all the time in the world for me.

You, always be the sparkles and sunshine and also the stardust of my life!

You was originally published in Tell Your Story on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Years ago, it was time for the holidays as the high school final-year exams had finally ended. My friends and I were excited about our free time and soon made plans to meet in a cafe nearby. There was something exhilarating about meeting classmates outside of school back then — about continuing friendships and chatter beyond the school’s borders.

The cafe was only two kilometers (approximately 1.24 miles) from my home, so I was optimistic my parents would be okay with me going out. I was thrilled as this was the first time I went alone outside, although only two kilometers away.

Since the weather was in a remarkable mood, I walked to the cafe beneath floating fluffy clouds and amidst pleasant winds swooshing across people’s hair, dresses, and faces.

We ended up having a great time at the cafe, chatting voraciously at the top of our voices and laughing unabashedly without an ounce of fear of some teacher sneaking up on us any time. Before parting our ways towards the end of our get-together, we got several photos clicked and promised to organize more such meets in the future.

As it was evening by the time we were leaving, the area outside got quite busy. I had to cross a bustling road before I set off for a walk back home. Now, as absurd and silly as it would sound, I was and still am, to some extent, terrified of crossing roads.

That evening, I realized I had never done it on my own.

I looked across the road, taking in the distance and the honking liveliness spread across the scene. My teenage brain buzzed tensely, trying to estimate when to start walking while parades of vehicles approached from both ends. I stood at one end of the road and kept trying to put one foot ahead of the other — as inconspicuously as possible.

After a few seconds passed, one of my classmates casually jogged over to me, calmly slid her hand into my hand, and said, “Come on, Diksha, let’s go!”. She effortlessly led me through the width of the road, stopping intermittently only to raise her hand to slow down the oncoming vehicles. She did it all again in reverse to walk towards her home, her hair bouncing behind, emitting radiant confidence.

While wondering how she accurately estimated that I needed help, I forgot to thank her for her kindness. I merrily waved goodbye to her from the other end of the road, expecting she would understand that I was thankful, and proceeded to walk home.

After we passed out of school, I never met her again.

Over the years, the distance between my home and the places I’ve been to has increased to a lot more than a couple of kilometers. I have stayed in hostels and traveled far away. Nevertheless, I have been immensely fortunate to come across friends who have graciously assisted me through different roads of life.

From caring for me when I was sick to looking out for me against people who might attempt to diminish me, several hands have held me through sometimes muddy and some other times slippery roads. With vehicles of uncertainty, intimidation, and loneliness approaching from all ends of life, these individuals have accurately judged that I needed help and respectfully waited for me to ask for it as I grew older and independent.

And then, when I asked for help, they showed their love and companionship in every way possible without any demands in return. They would move mountains or swerve their vehicles in my direction to pick me up from the pit that life is.

But as life would have it, the circumstances do not always favor the constant presence of these kind beings in our lives. Sometimes, we leave the places we inhabit because of jobs or education or simply another tempting life offer; sometimes, they leave before us. And then, there’s nobody outside our sweet homes whom we can rely on for support, stability, and companionship.

But even if they’ve left, their ghosts remain close to us, delightedly haunting us through their acts of the past.

I’ve been observing many of these ghosts lately after a friend left for newer opportunities, encouraging me to take on life single-handedly.

I see their ghosts chatting exuberantly at the kiosks or meandering merrily in the library. I see them near their favorite places or the worldly things they passed over. I see them in the restaurants they liked and other things they didn’t. I see them in the people they were fond of and the people they avoided. I see them walking between corridors, paths, and supermarket aisles. I see them swerving in my direction with all their might at the merest inkling that I need care.

I see them all the time, standing right next to me while I’m about to cross another road.

And sometimes, in moments of despair, fear, and uncertainty, I see how they would have been had they been here and how they would’ve consoled or made me laugh with all their love. And then, their ghostly presence and concrete absence overwhelm me, wishing for a time with no ghosts and only human presence.

Alas, nothing really happens by wishing.

But then, the actual humans who’ve left their ghosts behind reach out, grinning through phones and smiling through text messages. Solidifying their ghostly and loving presence a little more, day by day. Even though it is not the same, they try to be there by texting to start the day or calling immediately if life gets too much. By texting to know if I’m okay or calling to add on and perpetuate a previously shared joke.

By trying to be there as they were here — right next to me.

Although I would always prefer life to go back, that’s something impossible and probably not wise to wish for. Nevertheless, I’m grateful for the ghosts and their more concrete forms through technology. They remind me of how beautiful, bright, and blissful things had been in the past and spark a shimmering hope in my heart for the future.

Hope for coming across such people in the future or, admittedly and more preferably, the same ones who are grinning through phones now — guiding through the sloppy and uneven roads of life.

Years ago, when I was a first-grade kid, I had an unforgettable experience. After hours of toiling through alphabets, numbers, and colorful pictures, the bell rang shrilly at the end of the last hour, and it was time to go home. The bell brought about a brimming enthusiasm and movement among my peers, which often seemed a little scary to me.

Why? I don’t know.

Perhaps I was scared because I thought I might lose my way when a swarm of first-grade kids exited the classrooms and the school after that at more or less the same time. And when I’m lost, I won’t be able to find my way back to the path that led me from my classroom to the school gate and then to my sweet home.

Though it was a short path, as a six-year-old, I always dreaded getting lost in the crowd of kids walking and talking exuberantly.

So when the bell rang on this fine day, my irrational fears not only came into action but also materialized in an unexpected and wicked way. There was a palpable energy emanating cumulatively from all the tiny beings around. I don’t even remember why my classmates were so excited that day. The instant the bell rang, everyone prepared to rush to the classroom door in a flurry, and there was much commotion everywhere.

And what happened then? Or what happened to me during this auspicious time of freedom and joy?

I wore my rectangular bag on my back and made my way towards the door. But before taking a few steps, I silently tripped and fell on the classroom floor, near a desk, and in my comfortable school shoes. I fell facedown with my bag over my back, and unfortunately, my dear classmates started rushing all over me before I could get up.

One after another, they walked over and past me, trudging excitedly over my bag, hands, and legs.

I used to be a skinny kid when I was six years old, the kind of skinny when your collar bones protrude dominantly from behind the uniform shirt. I tried getting up after being trampled on for a bit but was unable to do so. I don’t know if anyone noticed me lying on the floor. My bag was pretty big and horizontal, so it may have covered half my body.

But my legs, shoes, and head were all out in the open.

I lay on the floor silently with meek attempts to rise and ask for help. But all my efforts were in vain. After a few seconds of attempts, I gave up and waited for the avalanche of the little shoes to end. While on the floor and under the rain of tiny and perhaps innocent steps, I couldn’t help but keep feeling invisible.

Here I was, a solid and concrete human being, and I was still not visible to an array of other human beings. My being there in person or in emotions of panic and fear and a bit of pain didn’t ruffle any feathers among my classmates.

They just had one target: the door.

With fears mounting, I lay there thinking and thinking and wishing for the seconds to not appear like hours and days. I kept thinking being invisible was a superpower, but I realized it was not and certainly did not feel like it. I kept wishing for a slight notice, a chance glance, or a complete estimation of my presence and feelings.

Within a few seconds, the avalanche came to pass, and the rollercoaster of fears and thinking stopped.

Years later, I was in the middle of a giant hall amidst a lively and buzzing professional event. I was accompanied by a colleague I was getting to know through this event. Eminent professionals and novices were socializing in different circles, with drinks and snacks carefully being refilled in their hands. Some moving heads excitedly drove the conversations, while others quietly gained insights into projects and exchanged ideas.

Soon, my colleague and I came across another professional and started our own circle. I was in a laid-back mood, so I let my colleague drive the conversation. I had already introduced myself and my work to the “newcomer” before, so I felt there was no need to be super-active here. While my colleague and the other professional chatted, I gazed here and there at the food stalls, trying to analyze what to eat and what to let go.

A few seconds later, I refocused some of my energy on the ongoing conversation. I heard faint, familiar words from my colleague and doubled down on my focus. Within seconds, I realized the colleague was talking about my project, which they had no relation to, and a couple more seconds later, the colleague was apparently introducing me.

I froze and was transported back to the classroom floor, unable to move in the past and speak in the present. I didn’t realize at first what was bothering me. The unexpected superiority of my colleague or the snatching away of the chance to communicate my project?

The colleague politely directed the other professional towards me and prompted me to add more on the topic they were not supposed to or requested to speak about. They could freely talk about their project, for which I had kindly kept quiet.

I couldn’t comprehend what made the colleague consider that I might need help talking about my project or talking in general. This was a professional event, and whatever I wanted to do, I wanted to do it on my own. Whatever be the quality of my networking. However, maybe to the colleague, I appeared to be someone of low potential who needed assistance and thus deserved this slight insult.

The eminent professional seemed impressed by my colleague and their hold on the conversation.

I felt invisible being trodden on like that.

Here I was, a solid and concrete human being, and I was still not visible to my social circle at the event.

A few hours later, the colleague politely repeated the same insult with another professional.

I didn’t say anything to enlighten the colleague; I kept wishing for a slight notice or a chance glance and expected them not to act as if my feelings and aspirations were invisible.

A few months later, the colleague repeated the same thing but on a personal front. They politely offered to help with something I had never discussed with them, which triggered my memories of invisibility again.

The colleague kept walking all over me, entirely focused on the classroom door. They kept hoarding attention and perhaps feelings of supremacy in my matters and appearing oblivious to my meek attempts.

I like to think that I react to a particular situation in a suitable way. But more often than not, there have been events where I didn’t get the chance, time, or sense to react the way I wanted to.

So, when the avalanche of footsteps ended years ago in the classroom, I slowly got up, wiped the dust from my uniform, ensured I wasn’t deeply hurt and noticed, and quickly walked back home. When the colleague directed other people towards me, trying to “help” me, I smiled politely, refused the help, dumped the resentments on the way, and vowed never to accompany them again.

As an ardent overthinker, I often wonder and fantasize about ways I would’ve reacted differently. I wonder about probably pushing a little harder, screaming my lungs out on the floor instead of being trampled, or appearing more assertive in social circles.

I can never be sure if I’ll do that, but I’ll try.

Walking All Over Me was originally published in Tell Your Story on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

While reading the last line of the book Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I thought gloomily, what next? I had read the entire series for the second time in the past year and was still reluctant to move on to newer books. Blaming the mental demands from other walks of life, I consistently relied on Harry Potter while overlooking the unread and dusty issued books from the library and electronic versions on Kindle and Audible.

The magical series provided guaranteed comfort to me, which was only likely if I explored other books.

But I finished the series again, this time only in two months, and had to choose the next book to read and continue reading. It was essential to progress in the realm of words and venture away from the magical world for some time.

So, unwillingly, I moved toward my tiny shelf and started looking through titles to choose from. After a few moments, I decided upon a classic novel by Leo Tolstoy. I was trying to be brave after technically reading a children’s book series. While pulling out the gigantic novel, something much smaller slipped from the shelf, covered in an old newspaper sheet.

I picked up the newspaper-covered something and instantly remembered what it was. There, hidden between the worlds of wonder, between classics and non-fiction, lay torn pages from my journal, packed in a newspaper from about six years ago. I remembered forcefully pulling those pages from the journal and hiding them within the old sheet and between the books.

I wanted to use the journal for other purposes, and clearly, these pages were standing in the way.

So, I tore them off for the new start of the journal but couldn’t brace myself to throw them away. Perhaps it was respect for my time and effort that went into filling those pages, or maybe it was the wish to preserve the memory despite vaguely recalling that it was not pleasant. So, I hid them between books larger than their size, and they remained hidden with time, from me and my memories until I started pulling out the novel.

Sweeping aside the resolution of reading classics, I unraveled the newspaper pack and started perusing my journal entries. Around 15 pages of ramblings were scribbled, dripping with endless emotions and desperate explanations. Going through the pages made me vividly remember the event that had resulted in such elaborate and wordy whining.

The event surrounded a simple digital conversation with an old friend, who is not a friend anymore. The conversation had made me feel enormously uncomfortable, offended, and miserable in the past. I sadly recalled agonizing over accusatory texts for many days after the conversation. The texts were about my memory, about me remembering every detail about the friend.

Behind the veils of the phone screen, the friend had politely asked, “Why do you do that (remember things)?”

I had asked the friend how their day went as they were working on a holiday. The friend, perplexed at my divine memory/knowledge, interjected and enquired how I knew they were working that day.

Disappointed and scared, they asked me “not to do that.”

As a “good” friend, I sincerely apologized for asking how their day went and feebly defended myself by reminding them that they had told me about working a few days ago. The friend digitally chuckled and said there was no need for a “sorry.”

The conversation ended there.

In the journal entries, I blamed myself intensely, listing out probable reasons why remembering such a thing about a friend was problematic (or creepy?). But a few paragraphs later, I also listed reasons for remembering it and stressed that it is not that difficult to remember when somebody works on a holiday. And then, as an ardent overthinker, I finally listed connections to previous squabbles that might have led to this polite blunder.

Looking back at the journal entries, I didn’t relive through or feel any of the misery. Now that six years had passed, I could clearly see that I was way more invested in the friendship than them. The friendship was asymmetrical, and naturally, I cared and worried more. The friendship existed only when they needed it. Otherwise, it remained canceled.

While an urge to blame the friend was rising in my mind, it didn’t last for more than a few seconds. Instead, I felt I should’ve just defended myself and not offered an apology. The friend was right, at least in that regard. There was no need for a “sorry.”

Life has been like this a lot lately, where looking back at memories, I don’t detest what happened to me; instead, I just mull over how I reacted. Not in a reprimanding way but rather in a consoling and supportive way. Like here, an apology was not needed. Perhaps what was needed was a loving whack to my head and no more texting, especially when the friend needed it.

Alas, that’s all in the past, and I was available in the blink of an eye when the friend had texted after a few days.

I mused over my divine ability to remember things, which is actually quite flawed—and then thought over my relentless availability, which needed some tweaking as per the people around me. Unsurprisingly, the friend never complained about my availability. Nevertheless, I folded the journal entries again, and instead of carefully packing them, I kept them aside to discard.

I no longer felt the need to preserve the memory. But, some uneasiness and unpleasantness about the memory lingered, and I had a momentary urge to restart Harry Potter to curl under the comfort blanket. I resisted the urge and just recounted the whole story to a close friend, who, upon hearing, calmly said, “You didn’t deserve that.”

Hearing this made me think that neither the older friend nor I were entirely wrong, but maybe "us" together was wrong.

Immensely grateful for my current friend's generous outlook and their acceptance of my remarkable (flawed) memory, I returned to my reading ventures and started with the classic world of wonder.

Hidden Between The Worlds of Wonder was originally published in Tell Your Story on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I rummaged my brain for one justification or another. I practiced conversing with them, sequentially laying out the arguments, one leading to another, with no loopholes or chances for retorts. I thought of every possible way to convince them because I knew they wouldn’t be excited about this heartily. I also noted not to show my disappointed face in case they disagreed. I didn’t want to come across as imposing or pushy.

I wanted to have an open mind, but I also liked their endearing presence around me.

It’s always a dilemma when we face a situation where everyone is not equally enthusiastic. Of course, we could resort to separating our activities. Still, it is not always feasible for reasons such as the lack of time or my irrational and surmounting desire to have them around all the time.

Nevertheless, I am always ready for their underwhelming pronouncements while secretly wishing they would say, “Yes!”.

At long last, I sat before them, nervous and slightly anxious. I slowly asked for what I wanted, and to my amazement, they genially smiled and agreed in one go. They said, “If I’m going there, I’m doing it for you.”

I couldn’t believe it. I was slightly taken aback.

It’s not like they had agreed to do something as per my wishes for the first time. Still, each agreement seemed like bursts of light coursing through my veins and sparkling overhead and everywhere, making everything around me mesmerizing and enchanting. Each agreement seemed something unusual. Something surreal.

I expressed my mild disbelief to them, and they chuckled, asking, “Why is it so surprising? Of course, I would do this for you.”

Of course. Like I said, this wasn’t the first time.

There have been instances of them going to pure vegetarian restaurants or restaurants where they served decent veg food. This was despite the presence of eateries where non-veg delicacies were in abundance and excellence or the fact that they sometimes preferred meat over anything else. And yet, they chose to compromise and have vegetarian food with me. Likewise, there have been agreements for watching subpar or funny movies of my choice or a long walk under the bright and shrouded moon. They had also agreed to talk to people for me, even though they probably wouldn’t interact with them if the choice were entirely up to them. Then, they had also attempted to surprise me at times just because I liked surprises or being the standard photographer for aesthetic surroundings!

All of these and countless other occurrences where they smoothly and without a hint of doubt chose to make me happy.

So when they asked why their care was surprising or a little unbelievable, I didn’t have immediate words to quantify my feelings. Surely, we have mutual adjustments, but the proof that somebody else agrees to my whims and fancies just seemed unnatural, even after multiple instances.

Finally, I replied with, “I don’t know. It just seems surreal.” Honestly, as I’ve thought it over, it seems like a dream and unreal because, seldom, humans outside of the home have tried to make everything homely. Rarely plans have been made, keeping my interests in the center. And hardly somebody had cared so much as it was their second nature.

Considering this, I guess a bit of disbelief was only natural.

Surreal was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.