The cursor on the examination portal blinked with a rhythmic, mocking persistence, mirroring the erratic thumping in Nazma's chest.
As she sat in the dim light of her room, the silence of the present began to peel away, revealing the jagged edges of a past she had tried to bury under piles of textbooks.
Simon turned, a faint smile ghosting at the corners of his lips, "Take care on your way home, Nanaz."
"Yeah... you too... thanks," The words were swallowed by a gust of wind that swept a single petal to her feet.
Simon crossed the street. Nazma stood frozen, her gaze anchored to the pavement.
If only I had been faster to accept his feelings...
Her heart hit the ground harder than the petals brushing against her shoes.
She realized then that goodbyes always left a mark. Whether deep or shallow, they never truly vanished.
Now, their paths were diverging; their homes were worlds apart, and school was coming to an end. It was a hollow, aching realization.
Then the pandemic arrived, bleaching the world grey.
The once-bustling hallways fell silent. Nazma found herself whispering to the empty air: I'm standing here, in this exact second, wanting so badly to be like a girl in a drama—to run to you, to hold you as if the world were ending tomorrow. But her fingers only clawed at the air, while the distance between them grew into an ocean.
I remember everything you sacrificed, Simon, she thought.
The small gestures, the hours you spent just hoping I'd let you in... what was the point of it all if you were just going to leave?
Nazma walked slowly along the narrow sidewalk, her bag slung heavily to one side.
The sunset bled a weary orange into the sky, the wind carrying the scent of road dust and the distant, lonely hum of a motorcycle. A single kilometer felt longer than a lifetime.
The trees swayed in a slow-motion blur, their shadows flickering over her face as she kept her eyes fixed on the ground, drawing deep breaths to balance the leaden weight in her mind.
She was alone that evening. April's relentlesschatter was absent, leaving Nazma to carry the silent burden of her heart in the stillness.
June 11, 2020
It's pathetic. But honestly, I'm exhausted. Being the eldest... I just want an older brother. I'm lonely.
I never wanted to be the first.
I hope I never have a younger sibling.
Because then, it'll be me who always has to yield, always has to understand, always has to be the "perfect example." Everyone says, "You're the oldest, you have to be able to handle it."
The weight on the eldest daughter is crushing. If there's a sibling, the responsibility falls on her shoulders. No! I don't want to be the adult everyone expects me to be. I want to be treated like a child forever. Forever.
I want someone in front of me. Someone older whose footsteps I can follow.
A big brother. Someone with a warm gaze—the kind of look that makes your chest feel lighter just knowing they care.
If I had an "Bro" maybe I wouldn't feel so isolated. I could tell my stories without fear of judgment. I could be vulnerable; I wouldn't always have to be the strong one. He'd be smart, and I'd learn everything from him.
Nazma let out a long, shaky breath.
The people who have older brothers are so lucky. They probably never have to be afraid of being bullied at school. If I had one... maybe everything would just be easier.
Then there was Harvey.
He was sharp, vibrant, and possessed a sense of humor unlike any boy she had ever met. Since the second grade—four years ago—she had idolized him.
He was the brilliant one, mastering the very subjects she loathed.
One day, she gathered the courage to message him. Her chance!
To her surprise, Harvey was an effortless conversationalist. He was kind, quick to reply, and sometimes even more talkative than she was. Every time a notification popped up, it felt like a tiny flower blooming in her chest.
Their chats drifted from homework questions to ridiculous stories, brief heart-to-hearts, and jokes that left Nazma smiling at her screen in the dark.
They shared their worlds.
One day, Harvey even suggested she try becoming a VTuber. The days of 2019 felt like a fever dream of possibility.
Harvey was already an established gaming vlogger—skilled, confident, and magnetic. Nazma was starstruck. Though she struggled with technology during the COVID-19 lockdowns, she was determined to support him with everything she had.
With every new video Harvey posted, Nazma was the first to hit "Like," sharing his content whenever she could. But out of her hundred online friends, only a handful ever bothered to engage.
Her heart felt a sharp, bitter sting. Taking a breath, her fingers trembling, she tapped the heart icon. "Good luck, Harv!" she wrote. A small smile appeared, even as her chest felt tight.
A reply flashed instantly:
"Thanks, Naz! Thanks for the support!"
It felt warm, yet it cut deep.
I want him to know how hard I'm trying, she thought.
How much I admire his talent. How much I wish the rest of the world could see what I see. "Don't forget me when you're famous, Harv," she replied, adding a smiling emoticon.
Harvey shot back:
"Man, no way. You're my first loyal viewer."
It was a sweet bond. Until the silence stretched too long. It ended with a single sentence from Harvey that drove Nazma into a cold, distant shell:
"You're so sensitive. You act like you're mentally ill."
Mentally ill?
Someone tries to open up, and they're told they aren't sane—instead of being comforted. Instead of being heard.
Nazma stared at the screen for a long time, her fingers icy. It felt like being shoved into an abyss without a warning. Am I really that harsh? Was it so wrong to share how I felt? she wondered, her chest constricting.
She bit her lip, fighting the heat rising in her eyes. Why would he say that... Why? Harvey.
She could ignore a cruel word from anyone else. But from him? From Harvey? It wasn't just a comment; it was a small needle pushed slowly into her skin, impossible to pull out. She turned her face away from the glowing screen.
"I just wanted to be heard..."
The words seemed trivial, but this was Harvey—the figure she had looked up to for four years. Her heart didn't just break; it shattered into dust.
The Class Group Chat
"Look at her grammar. It's a mess." Nazma stared at the screen, her body going rigid.
He's so arrogant, just because he can speak English, she thought. She tried to steady herself, typing carefully:
"What part is wrong?"
There was a hollow silence, and then Harvey chimed in again: "Someone, please... anyone... just tell her what's wrong."
Idiot! she screamed internally.
He pointed out the flaw but refused to show her how to fix it. It was the first time she had ever cursed someone in her mind. And the first person she ever truly hated? It was her own idol.
The memory of that cold, digital rejection bit deeper than the chill in her current room.
Nazma exhaled, a sharp, ragged sound that broke the silence of the night. She looked down at her hands—the same hands that had once trembled over Harvey's messages, now steady and calloused from years of relentless work.
The pain of being "mentally ill" in Harvey's eyes or "not enough" in Simon's was no longer a weight; it was the anvil upon which she had forged her resolve.