Psychological Drama- Six Months Since You - Chapter 1

Six months, twenty-five days, five hours, sixteen minutes… and maybe a few seconds more since I lost the love of my life, my husband, in a car crash. Sixteen years of friendship, eleven years of love, one year of marriage, and a lifetime of promises—everything flashes before me. Memories, laughter, and moments shared all wrestling with my heart and sanity with every tick of the clock. Sometimes, it feels like that was all I had. He was my everything. And now, with him gone, I wonder… what is left to hold on to?

"Deepu, this is the last time I'm telling you this Yaar,"

Aniruddh said, his voice a mix of annoyance and affection.

"Do NOT boil milk, water, and tea leaves together when making Chai. You’ll ruin it. First, boil the water, add some elaichi, a little saunf, a clove, and a few strands of saffron. Let it all come together with the tea leaves, simmering until it has that perfect aroma. Only then, after the first boil, do you add the milk. Half the amount of water you used, samjhi?"

His words were almost a ritual, spoken with the same playful exasperation every time he made his or rather, "The" perfect cup of tea (ever made). He gently took the kettle from my hand and planted a soft kiss on my forehead. As he moved around the kitchen, immersed in his little tea-making dance, I couldn't help but smile.

"What would happen to you without me, love?"

He teased, handing me the steaming cup with a grin that was all his.

"Here, your cup of Aniruddh-special Chai, just the way you like it."

And there it was. That smile. The one that could brighten the darkest days. It was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen, or maybe it just felt that way because I was in love. Or maybe because, over time, I had become oblivious to other people’s smiles. His charm, his grace, the soft dimples that appeared when he smiled—it was like he held the power to make the world fade away, leaving only us in that perfect moment.

Taking the cup from his hand, I blushed.

“Why should I worry about making the perfect chai when I have you? My ‘perfect-I-can-do-it-all’ man. Let the world fuss over their cups of tea. I have you, so worries can’t touch me. Besides, you’re the expert. Why bother when I can just let you pamper me?"

I chuckled, winked at him, and took a sip.

"Ah, heavenly taste, as always..."

Damn, I burned my fingers. The boiling water scalded me, snapping me back to reality from the weight of the past. In a daze, I poured the hot water straight onto my fingers, thinking it was the Chai I had just made. I rushed to the washroom, sucking on my fingers, then running them under cold water. My eyes welled up, and tears began to slip down my cheeks.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t help but wonder: Was it the pain of the burn, the hollow ache of Aniruddh’s absence, the fear of losing my grip on sanity—or maybe it was all of it, or perhaps none of it—that caused these tears to fall? The searing pain...is it a result of the emptiness of loss, or is it something deeper—the weight of a life that's become too much to bear?

"Deepakshi, Deepakshi! Are you here?"

Ms. Thompson’s soft yet insistent voice cut through the haze clouding my mind. She had been jotting notes at her desk, the soft scratch of her pen blending into the background. But the moment my breathing shifted, her sharp, observant gaze snapped up, catching the change before I even uttered a word.

"Hey, hey ...listen, everything's alright, everything is normal, and you are here safe!"

Her movements were deliberate as she crossed the room, her steps steady, like she was approaching something delicate—something on the verge of breaking. Reaching out, her hand brushed against mine—a light, grounding touch that tethered me to reality.

I blinked, disoriented. My surroundings slowly sharpened—the warm hues of her cabin, the faint scent of lavender, the soft tick of the clock on the wall. I was still here, on the familiar sofa. Not in my kitchen. Not nursing a burnt finger. And yet, instinctively, my hand moved to my fingers, searching for the pain I could swear I had felt moments ago.

My breath quickened, panic stirring deep within. I glanced around, desperate to make sense of the chaos in my mind. My hands trembled, and I found myself sucking on my finger as though trying to soothe an imagined burn.

Ms. Thompson shifted closer, her movements deliberate and gentle. Her voice softened further, becoming a tether to reality.

"Deepakshi, listen dear, it’s okay. You’re safe. Look at me."

She reached for my hand, her touch grounding me.

"You haven’t burned yourself. There’s no injury. You’ve been sitting here with me all morning...Trust me dear, will you?"

I shook my head, tears streaming down my face.

"But I felt it," I whispered. "The hot water… I poured it on my fingers. I..." My voice broke the words caught in the knot of emotions strangling me.

Ms. Thompson didn’t let go of my hand. Her gaze remained steady, her tone patient.

"I know it felt real, Deepakshi. And that’s because the mind is powerful—especially when it’s trying to protect itself from something deeper. You’ve told me many times now that your husband died six months ago. Each session, you recount this loss with such vivid detail."

I looked at her, confusion mingling with defensiveness.

"Because it’s true. Six months ago. A car crash. He’s gone."

Her voice didn’t waver, but there was no rigidity in it either—just quiet compassion.

"I understand, Deepakshi. And I know how much Aniruddh meant to you. You’ve been through so much, and I’m not here to challenge your pain. I just want to help you make sense of it."

I blinked at her, overwhelmed by the swirl of emotions—grief, anger, confusion—all vying for dominance.

"Why are you saying this? Make sense of what? What do you really mean Huma?...He was my life. My everything."

Ms. Thompson nodded gently, leaning closer.

"And that’s exactly why we’re here—to help you navigate this, step by step. I’m not questioning your love, your memories, or your reality, Deepakshi. I’m here to walk with you through it, no matter how hard it feels. Let’s take a breath together, okay?"

Her steady patience began to seep into the chaos within me. I closed my eyes, inhaling shakily, unsure whether I could trust her words—or even my own mind. For now, I just wanted to leave. I grabbed my bag and hurriedly wiped away my tears, but the weight inside me was unbearable. My disoriented thoughts swirled, making my anxiety spike even higher. Before I could reach the door, my knees buckled, and I sank back onto the sofa with a thud, burying my head in my hands.

"I don’t know what’s happening, Huma," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Am I losing my mind? Everything feels so blurry. I... I need to leave. Lionel... Lionel is with my neighbor. He must be looking for his mother. I need to go..."

My words trailed off, replaced by a torrent of sobs that erupted from the depths of my suffocating pain. Huma—Mrs. Thompson—didn’t rush me or chastise me. She moved with quiet urgency, retrieving a pill from my prescribed set of medications. Kneeling beside me, she gently handed me the tablet with a glass of water.

"Deepakshi, here. Take this. It’ll help calm you down," she said, her voice soft but resolute, an anchor amidst my storm.

I swallowed the pill, my hands trembling. She placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, her calm presence cutting through the chaos within me.

"Breathe with me, Deepakshi," she instructed, inhaling deeply to guide me. "That’s it—slow, steady breaths. Let’s take a few minutes here before you go anywhere. I’ll book a cab to take you home, okay?"

I nodded weakly, tears streaming down my face as I tried to match her measured breathing. Her words followed, steady yet tinged with concern.

"We’ll fix another appointment for next week. In the meantime, remember to journal your thoughts. Write everything down—whatever comes to mind, no matter how small. And don’t forget to take your pills on time. You’re not alone in this, Deepakshi. It’s going to get better. You’re already taking steps forward, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now."

Her words felt distant, almost surreal, as though they belonged to someone else’s life. Deep inside, I knew she didn’t believe everything she said, not yet. And perhaps neither did I. Because we both knew the truth: I wasn’t better. Not yet.

Huma glanced at me as she made notes in her planner, her brow furrowed with worry. She wasn’t just concerned about my PTSD or the bouts of disorientation that plagued me. There was something darker looming, something that even I refused to confront. The persistent intertwining of realities—the loss of my husband and the phantom presence of Lionel—painted a fragile picture of my mental state.

Lionel. My baby boy who never had the chance to live. Born too soon, he had slipped away before I could even hold him long enough. And yet, for the past six months, my mind had conjured vivid images of him alive—his laughter, his cries, his tiny hands reaching out for me. I could feel him, hear him, almost smell his baby scent.

But Lionel wasn’t here. He had never been here.

Huma’s concern ran deeper than she let on. She feared that these fractured realities weren’t just symptoms of grief but perhaps the harbinger of something more insidious—early-onset dementia, a possibility that loomed heavy in her thoughts but remained unspoken between us. For now, she held my arm gently as she guided me to the cab, her voice calm as she reminded me once more to take my pills on time, journal, and focus on my breathing. But as the car drove me home, I couldn’t help but wonder: was I holding on to memories… or losing myself entirely?

As the car picked up speed and the road stretched ahead, I began to wonder.

Is illusion is a murmur in the breeze, a shimmer on the sunlit seas. What is it? A figment, born of sight, or truth disguised in shades of light?

The thought lingered like the distant hum of the tires beneath me. Was love itself a figment of the mind, a beautiful lie dressed in the trappings of truth? Or is it, as we've been taught, something grander—only to be torn apart by the very world that promised it?

The act of love, or rather, the gift of love, is often seen as a divine blessing. But what if it’s laced with betrayal and deception? What if it’s just another illusion, one that poets and great authors have sold us through the ages?

A heart in love cannot comprehend the sting of betrayal. It is blind to the world's dark corners, believing only in light. And a heart that has never known love—its hollow ache knows nothing but betrayal. For such hearts, love’s definition shifts like shifting sands, ever elusive. For them, love is perhaps a nocturnal feeling, something felt only in the dark hours when nothing is clear and when the world’s phantasms are most potent.

And then, for those who know the weight of love, who have felt its full force—the curse becomes clear. To love so completely is to risk losing yourself, to give all you are, and, ultimately, to find yourself shattered.

I cannot fathom anyone dearer than thee, for thy soul is a twin of mine... But what happens when that connection is torn apart? When the world’s dirty ways turn the promise of love into a cruel mockery? I glanced down at a photo of us, smiling back from the screen of my phone, the memory of happier days almost too much to bear.

And all that escaped my lips whispered through a heavy sigh, was one word: "Why?"

And as the car raced on, I wondered—what if this feeling was the true essence of love? The world’s conjured-up tale, designed to dazzle those who succumb to it—fragile and exquisite—only to fracture under the weight of its own creation.

What if, in the end, the greatest betrayal of love was not its end but the very idea that it could ever last?

As the car pulled up to my building, I barely registered its stop. The dull hum of the engine seemed distant, lost in the storm of thoughts swirling inside my head. What if everything I had built my life around—every memory, every promise, every touch—was just a story I had told myself to survive? The question lingered, heavy and unrelenting.

I stepped out of the car, my legs unsteady, my body heavier with every step I took. The sick feeling in my stomach hadn’t gone away. It had become a constant companion, nagging me whenever the world felt too still. Inside, the silence greeted me like an old enemy, more suffocating than I remembered. The air felt thick and heavy, as if something—or someone—was missing, as if I was missing.

Aniruddh’s absence clawed at me, even though he’d been gone for months. I found myself pacing, the uncertainty making my head spin. I couldn’t shake the image of his face, that last smile he’d given me just before everything shattered. But now, that smile was a lie. A memory tainted by doubt.

I moved through the apartment mechanically, drawing the curtains and adjusting the lighting...and stuff. I needed the familiar, needed the routine to ground me, but nothing felt normal anymore. I barely noticed the photo frame on the mantle until I was standing right in front of it, my hand hovering above the glass. A picture of us on our wedding day, a day I couldn’t quite remember but knew had been filled with joy, with promises. The smiles seemed so distant now, so unreal. The life we had built together felt like it belonged to someone else.

But then, something shifted. A jolt of clarity, followed by the sickening sensation that I might be losing my mind. My vision blurred, and for a moment, everything went black.

Another blackout. It had been happening for months—short, frightening lapses in memory that left me disoriented and afraid. I couldn’t even trust my existence anymore.

As the room swayed in and out of focus, a memory returned to me—a conversation I had buried so deep I could barely grasp it, like a dream that slipped away just before I could wake up.

“I don’t want to leave you, Deepakshi. But there are things I can’t share with you… things that will change everything.”

The words echoed in my mind, cold and sharp, but when I reached for them, they slipped away like sand through my fingers. I was left with only a hollow ache in my chest, a gnawing sense that something was terribly wrong.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang, pulling me back to the present with a jolt. I wasn’t ready for whoever stood on the other side. But as always, I had no choice but to answer.

(To be continued...)