No one knew why he committed suicide. It was a shock for everyone to hear that he had taken his life at the brink of midnight in the little village. The knife he had used to slice open his wrists had long been thrown into the river by his sobbing mother.
“But he had a happy life, he greeted me with a smile just yesterday,” one reasoned.
“Wasn’t he pretty smart? Didn’t the King award him for that? Oh, the jewels and the sack of coins,” another said.
“He was his parents’ star; they used to gloat about him whenever they had the chance,” his neighbour commented.
“He was handsome too. All the girls were crazy about him,” his classmate added.
“Then what happened?” the milkman asked.
No one knew the answer—except for the sixteen-year-old girl sitting in a dark, dusty room that no one had dared to enter.
She had seen the boy suffer in agony. She had watched his sleepless nights and heard his quiet pleas. She had seen him tossing and turning in pain, as if fighting an invisible war. She had heard, watched, and felt her big brother’s pain—but she could never pierce the walls he had built around himself.
She knew she could never have helped him—and yet, she still blamed herself for his death.
Should she have entered his room and hugged him? Would a hug have said it all? Or should she have simply said,
"I love you the way you are. You are not wrong. Your feelings are valid."
“Did he know I loved him?”
She had seen the stolen glances at the other boy. She had heard his thoughts—his self-scolding, his fists hitting his own skin. The disgust and pain were written all over a body he tried so desperately to hide.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe the world was too damaged for someone like him.
But was she even allowed to think that?
“I’m happy you’re free,” she whispered slowly, as a tear fell from her cheek onto his kurta.
