Heal the Heart

21.

My thoughts swerved and derailed and crashed, turning into one colossal explosion. I had never explained to anyone what exactly happened to me. Some things I liked keeping close to my heart. Close to the damn thing that nearly ruined me.

It was nearing nine thirty. I was supposed to shut shop and head to the gym. But I couldn't move from the bench in the staff's locker room. I had paced and wrung my fingers and pulled out my hair. My watch beeped. Loud and shrill. One twenty-five beats per minute. I wasn't even doing anything.

A laugh bubbled from me.

Such a fucking hypocrite.

I'd said so much to Beck, like I was some fucking licensed expert in dishing out advice. Who did I turn to? Even now, who did I turn to? When I passed out on my bed in a pool of my tears and vomit, who knew about that? No one. I picked myself up and pretended all was good with life, and then came back to my room, only to repeat the same cycle of sorrow.

I dialled his number and looked at the time again. It was nine-thirty-five here, which meant ten o'five in the morning there. He would probably be at home, with the news on and a late breakfast in hand. Clarissa would still be asleep. My mom with her crossword, switching her attention between the paper and the TV.

I slipped off the bench and crouched on my heels, my head between my knees as I tried to breathe. Tried to get my heart rate down. My watch beeped again. Damnit. Panic strangled me. I grabbed the bench behind me to keep me from collapsing.

Why was I scared? He was my father. We shared the same blood. My DNA was made up of his.

The dial stopped, and I heard his voice. "Hello?"

I clenched my eyes shut and pushed to my feet. "Hey, daddy," I choked out. One breath. Two. "It's Neil."

"Neelu! Baaba, how are you?" I could hear the smile in his voice.

I rarely called home these days. Most of my excuses consisted of too busy or too tired or gotta study, but I just couldn't talk to my parents and pretend everything was alright. Pretend that I was doing okay here. Pretend that seeing Arya making it big didn't hurt my soul.

I couldn't even remember the last time my father and I sat down and really talked to each other. When I visited for the summer, I spent most of my time outside, roaming the streets of Mumbai, or locked in my room, trying to quell the feeling of shame.

With each breath, my lungs ached like someone was tearing out fistfuls of bronchioles from it. My watch beeped. "I'm not—I'm not okay, daddy."

There it was. The truth.

I fell to the bench, all the energy drained out of me.

"What? Baaba, what happened? Are you okay? Is there a problem?" I heard my mother in the background, asking to hand the phone over. Speaking over him. Asking if I wanted to come back home. He told her to calm down, then I heard the slide of a door.

He was on the balcony. Alone.

"Talk to me, Neelu."

My eyes were overflowing with tears. I couldn't even see straight. "I'm tired of feeling sad all the time. I thought by now, the pain should reduce, right? But it's like I'm still in the doctor's office, listening to that same diagnosis over and over again. I can't... I can't sleep at night. Sometimes, I can't concentrate in class. Every time I keep thinking, if only I held it in. If only I somehow managed through the dizziness and took a break on the pitch. Maybe I could've been there now. I could've been playing for our country. I could've made you and amma so proud. I—"