27 ~ Realization

                                    

                                          
"The feeling of guilt is a reminder that we are responsible for the choices we make and the pain we cause."
Ruhanika
Realization may seem like a small, everyday term, but its weight can crush a person in an instant. My cheerful, self-made world—a place of comfort and fantasy—shattered in a single blow of truth. The understanding hit me like a typhoon.
I watched the old woman leave, words failing me. The weight of realization held me silent, making it impossible to speak. I saw Maya and Arjun Bhaisa approaching, their faces lit with happiness. For a moment, I forgot my pain, quickly wiping my tears and holding them back until I could be alone, free to let go without worrying them. They deserved to enjoy these days leading up to the wedding, and I didn’t want my sorrow clouding their joy.
I forced a smile. It wasn't hard—I’d spent a lifetime perfecting it. Maybe I’m a decent actor, after all, because neither of them noticed the cracks beneath my mask.
Their voices reached me, but I barely registered their words. My mind drifted far away, searching for hope, something to cling to—even if it was an illusion or a lie. I couldn’t handle the weight of the truth bearing down on me.
They kept trying to include me in their conversation, but I wasn’t really there. Thoughts stormed through my mind, clouding any sense of clarity. All I wanted was solitude, so I told them I was tired and needed a nap. They agreed, perhaps sensing something was wrong.
Once alone, I locked the door and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The designs, maybe flowers and tendrils, caught my eye. I thought how lovely they’d look embroidered on fabric… but even that distraction didn’t work. I felt hot tears slipping into my hair as I lay there.
I couldn’t avoid it any longer. Her words echoed in my mind, cutting deep. I began to sob, my heart aching beyond words.
Fear gripped me—fear of hurting him. What should I do? He doesn’t deserve this heartbreak. Just by being here, by getting close to him, I felt as if I’d doomed him. I would never want to hurt him, my Dev.
My hands trembled, and my breathing grew shallow. I struggled to stifle my sobs, but they poured out, relentless. It felt like I was suffocating, like someone had clamped a hand around my throat. I gasped, desperate for air. I couldn’t have a panic attack now.
I forced myself to take deep breaths, looking around to ground myself. Sunlight streamed through a small window, falling on the trunk that held my clothes. I grabbed my backpack, rummaging until I found my diary. Opening it, I gazed at the picture of my parents, their familiar smiles looking back at me.
I don’t know how long I sat there, just staring at them, letting their warmth wash over me. But it worked—I could finally breathe again.
                                 🫅
It had been a week since that strange, overwhelming panic attack, but I was still haunted by it, replaying each detail over and over in my mind, grasping at any hint that might explain what had happened. Questions festered inside me, piling up without answers, tangled in a web of confusion and dread. No one could untangle them for me, not even Maya or Janki Amma, though they tried. I knew my troubled state worried them, their concerned glances and endless questions reflecting the strain on my face, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. I was stuck in the past, at that temple, in the presence of her—whoever she was, and whatever she meant.
After many restless nights of questioning myself, trying to make sense of things alone, I finally came to a decision: I had to go back to the temple. The thought of doing nothing, of just sitting in the palace, was driving me mad. Early one morning, with the palace still draped in shadow and silence, I slipped away, knowing no one would let me leave if I explained where I was going. I could only hope to return before anyone noticed I was gone, but I knew even if I didn’t, it would be worth it if I could find her and get the answers I craved.