When you smile

Chapter 29

The moonlight filters through the glass window, its feeble glow struggling to penetrate the heavy curtains. I lie in bed, enveloped by the suffocating darkness, desperate for its sheltering embrace. The outside world, with its cacophony of sights and sounds, seems foreign and irrelevant. This room, this desolate chamber of shadows and seclusion, has become my sole refuge, my distorted perception of safety.

But even here, within the depths of my self-imposed isolation, the scars of my past linger like haunting specters. The weight of my experiences presses upon me, suffocating any semblance of hope or light. It's as if the walls themselves carry the burden of my anguish, whispering reminders of my pain and suffering.

I catch a faint sound of footsteps drawing near, approaching the door of my room. It's probably my mom, I think to myself. However, the footsteps abruptly cease, fading into the distance until they become barely audible.

And then, just as suddenly, the sound returns, growing louder and more distinct.

As the doorknob turns, a thin beam of light seeps through the crack, piercing the darkness and casting eerie, twisting shadows that dance upon the walls. It serves as a stark reminder of the outside world, a world I often find solace in shutting out. Gradually, the door creaks open, revealing my dad standing there, his gaze distant and vacant. Though there is a tinge of sadness and concern etched upon his face, but we aren't that close that we can cherish them in the words between us. With deliberate steps, he approaches the edge of the bed, his hands clasped together.

I find it rather strange that my dad didn't ask anything about the drama that unfolded last night. It's as if he's intentionally avoiding the topic, yet his concern for me seems to grow with each passing day. Since yesterday, he has been checking on me more frequently, extending his reach to ensure I'm okay.

Breaking the heavy silence that hangs in the air, my dad clears his throat. His voice trembles, revealing a mixture of warmth and genuine concern as he asks, "How are you feeling?"

The room is dimly lit, obscuring his eyes and leaving only the silhouette of his figure visible to me. Strangely enough, this provides a fleeting sense of comfort, making it slightly easier for me to respond.

Summoning the strength within, I prop myself up with my arms and reply in a hushed tone, "I'm okay."

This time, he doesn't respond with a simple "Good" and leave. Instead, he remains standing there, unsure of what to do next. Gradually, he moves and slowly sits on the edge of my bed, with the faint light from the door gently touching his feet. In this moment, he feels like a stranger, unlike my usual dad who would probably tell me to toughen up and move on, leaving the past behind.

"Dev," his voice resonates, hanging in the air between us, and I can hear the nervousness in his voice as he gulps.

When he doesn't say anything further for a moment, I break the silence by asking, "Hmm?"

I notice him wiping his hands on his thighs, a behavior that is out of the ordinary for him. As his eyes meet mine, they quickly avert, and he slowly gets up, walking toward the window to open the curtains. Moonlight finally penetrates the darkness of my room, reconnecting me with the outside world.

"Dev, I grew up in a very conservative family, quite different from ours, you know?" His gaze is fixed on something in the distance beyond these walls as he speaks. "We never had these family meetings or heart-to-heart conversations, so I'm not very good at it. I struggle to express myself. I struggle to comfort someone, to make someone feel better or...safe."

In that moment, flashes of last night run through my mind when my dad tried to comfort me, but I pushed him away, unable to let him touch me.

I want to say something like, "No, it's okay," or "I understand," but the words fail me.