MY MOON

CHAPTER 43:ALYA

In the days that followed my father's death, I was a shell of myself, lost in a fog of disbelief and despair. I became lifeless. Words became foreign to me, talking became an impossible task. I drifted through the world as if in a trance, a silent spectator to my own life. It felt as though my voice had been stolen, leaving behind only a gaping void where my heart used to be.

We performed the funeral rites in the traditional Hindu way. Alex prepared the funeral was with so much care, and I watched through a veil of tears as my father's body was placed atop the wood.

As the flames were lit, a cold, biting wind blew through the cremation grounds, but I felt none of its chill. I stood there, motionless, as the fire began to consume him. The crackling of the flames was a cruel to the silence that had taken over my mind. It was as if the universe had gone silent, leaving only the sound of my father's final journey.

The fire blazed fiercely, and with it, I felt as though everything I had ever known was burning away. My happiness, my joy, my hope—all seemed to be gone in thoose flames, turning to ash alongside my father's body. The smoke rose into the sky, carrying with it the essence of the man who had been the center of my world. I watched it rise, knowing that it would never return.

I stood at the edge of the pyre, the heat searing my skin, but I couldn't move away. I was frozen in place, by the sight of my father's body disappearing into the ash. It felt as if a part of me was burning with him, the part that had been whole and unbroken. I wanted to scream, but no sound would come. The tears, too, had dried up, as if they had evaporated into the flames along with my father's soul.

I remembered every detail of the man I had lost—his smile, his laughter, the warmth of his embrace. Each memory was a knife in my heart, twisting deeper with each moment that passed. The void he left behind was vast and unfathomable.

The rituals continued around me, the priests chanting prayers, their voices blending with the roar of the fire. But I couldn't focus on their words. My mind was a whirlpool of grief and regret. I had failed him in so many ways, had let my stubbornness and pride drive a wedge between us. The last words we had exchanged were angry, bitter, and now they were all I had left. I would never have the chance to tell him how much I loved him, how sorry I was for every harsh word, every misunderstanding.

As the flames died down, I felt overwhelming. This was the end. There was no going back, no way to undo the past or rewrite our last moments together. He was gone, and I was left with the unbearable burden of my grief.

The world moved on around me, people came and went, offering their condolences, their sympathies. But their words were like distant echoes, fading into the background noise of my sorrow. I couldn't bring myself to engage with them, couldn't find the strength to acknowledge their attempts at comfort.

Elizabeth was a ghostly presence beside me, her own grief was like a silent scream in the dark. I could see the devastation in her eyes, the way she clung to memories of my father as if they were lifelines. I knew I should be there for her, to hold her, to comfort her, to share in her sorrow. But I could barely hold myself together. How could I possibly offer her the support she needed when I was crumbling inside? Alex had been doing that part, being there for her.

So I stayed apart, in my own agony, unable to reach out to anyone. The isolation felt like the only way to survive. I wandered through the days like a ghost, my mind numb, my heart heavy with the weight of my loss. Each breath was a struggle, each step a reminder of the emptiness that now filled my life.

I often found myself standing by the window, staring out at the world that continued to turn without my father in it. The days blurred into one another, a endless cycle of pain and numbness. It felt as if colours of life had drained away, leaving me only a dull, gray.

At night, I lay in my bed, the silence pressing down on me like a weight. I would close my eyes and see his face, hear his voice, the echoes of a past that seemed so far out of reach. I would toss and turn, my mind replaying our last moments together, each memory a fresh wound that refused to heal.

In the quiet moments, when the world was still and the shadows seemed to grow long and deep, I would allow myself to break. I would curl up on the floor, clutching his photograph to my chest, and let the sobs wrack my body until there was nothing left. The grief was a heavy, suffocating presence that threatened to swallow me whole.

The pain would become sharp, the memories haunting. But for now, all I could do was endure, to let the waves of grief wash over me, and hope that one day, I would find the strength to stand again.