Abhay's Bhay

Being woken up by an alarm clock is a curse. The sound of the abominable machine pierces my dream’s landscape, and I’m jolted back to reality. My hand reflexively goes to shut off its noise. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the birds chirp outside my window. Sunlight washes over my face. I get up and sit on the edge, face in my palms, trying to muster the strength to leave the comfort of my sheets, wishing to sleep in for a few more hours. Life doesn’t allow it. My mind starts running through the checklist—things that need to be done today, meetings I have to attend, tasks I’ve been avoiding for days, weeks, months.

I leave the bed a mess and head to the bathroom to freshen up and shower. My mood sinks further when I walk into the kitchen and see the unclean dishes from yesterday’s dinner and breakfast. The first hard decision of the day—whether cleaning up is worth it before a workday—looms over me. I decide against it and make my coffee. As I’m sipping my drink, watching the seconds hand on the clock ticking by, my eyes fall on the stack of books on my desk. A pang of guilt hits my chest. I remember when I used to devour books as a kid. I bought these with the same enthusiasm, planning to read them in a month, but they’ve been untouched since. Time to leave. I finish my coffee, grab a book, and hope to get some reading done on the commute.

The routine keeps me going, one foot in front of the other. Book in hand, but my mind is elsewhere. As the train lurches from station to station, I glance at the people I share this commute with. Sullen faces, droopy eyes, slouched postures—everyone here could have used a few more hours of sleep. There’s an unspoken kinship among us, strangers bound by exhaustion. I get off at my stop, weave through the crowd, and walk to work.

I walk in with a practiced smile, waving and nodding to the people around me, making a beeline to my desk. The book lands on the table, my bag underneath, and I stretch before starting work. But as I try to focus on the task at hand, my eyes keep straying to the unopened book. A hollow feeling grows in my chest, and I can’t quite put my finger on why I’m unable to do the things I want lately. I could make time if I really tried, but I just don’t. I’m stuck in this cycle—unmotivated, passing the time in front of the television, half-watching, half-scrolling through my phone. It feels like I’m wasting away. A chasm opens in my heart, threatening to swallow me whole.

A colleague’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I put on my work smile and engage in small talk, commenting on how I haven’t seen her in a while. Julia shares the sad news of her cat passing away last week and how she took some time off to mourn. She talks about missing Nala—the things her cat used to do, how long they’d been together, how hard it was to get out of bed after losing her. Her mother stayed with her for a few days, helping her through the grief, reminding her to allow herself to mourn but also to pull herself together when it was time. Nala wouldn’t want her to be sad.

I’m moved by her words. Before this, I don’t recall having a conversation with her that felt this genuine. Her feelings are raw, her vulnerability palpable. I offer my condolences, saying how sorry I am for her loss. I want to tell her that things will get better, that time will heal, but the words don’t come. She squeezes my shoulder before leaving, and the gesture tells me those few words were enough. Losing a companion is hard, and pets are part of the family. Her loss makes my problems seem smaller, but I still feel the sadness in her voice, in her story.

As the day goes on, I meet with my boss to discuss project progress. He notes that I’ve seemed distant lately, not fully present. I admit that my focus has been scattered. He listens, then asks if there’s anything that could help. I shrug, still unsure, and mention that a little support might make a difference. He nods, reminding me that the team is there for a reason, and that it’s okay to lean on them if things get too heavy. As I’m about to leave, he pauses, his voice calm but earnest, and says, “Don’t forget—you’re allowed to pace yourself.” I nod, the words lingering as I head back to my desk. As the workday winds down, meetings over and deadlines met, I sit at my desk, hands behind my head, eyes on the ceiling. When my gaze falls on the book again, something clicks. Julia and I aren’t so different after all.

The book represents a loss of self to me—the me who would stay up late reading as a teen, who watched movies to savor the art of storytelling. The current me feels burdened by the day-to-day, overwhelmed by choices, unsure where to draw the line between what I want to do and what I have to do. Everyone struggles, and everyone’s struggles are valid. It’s not about who has the right to complain—I’m on my own journey, fighting my own demons, just like everyone else. It’s like the kinship I felt with the other exhausted commuters. That’s the beauty of the human experience. I should extend the same kindness to myself that I offered to Julia. If I plan for it today, I’ll do better tomorrow.