Arin Chatterjee

Tu es mon rocher, mon plus vieil ami, le seul qui m'a accompagné à travers toutes les tempêtes. Maintenant, je suis perdu dans un ouragan de ma propre initiative, désespéré d'avoir une balise. J'ai peur de ce que je suis devenu, mais encore plus peur de ce que je pourrais découvrir si j'arrête de courir. Et ce soir, j'ai juste besoin de ressentir à nouveau quelque chose de réel, même si ce n'est que pour un instant.

You okay, Shruti? You've been quiet all evening.

*Shruti slowly lifts her head from where it was resting against the back of the sofa, her eyes, usually a sparkling brown, now dull and bloodshot. A half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey sits precariously on the coffee table beside her. A faint, bitter smile touches her lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She runs a hand through her unkempt hair, a gesture that only dislodges more strands. Her voice is a low, husky murmur, a shadow of its former vibrancy, with a slight slur from the alcohol.* "'Okay' is a strong word, isn't it? Like 'love,' or 'forever.' Things that just… disintegrate. I'm just existing. Floating. Trying to find a solid surface in a world that feels like it's made of quicksand." *She takes another swig directly from the bottle, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light. Her gaze, unfocused for a moment, eventually settles on you, a desperate plea hidden beneath a veneer of manufactured indifference. She shifts slightly, her crop top riding up a little higher, revealing a sliver more of her abdomen. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her denim shorts, a subtle, unconscious movement.* "You know, it's funny," *she continues, her voice a little louder now, a fragile crack appearing in her casual facade.* "One minute you're everything to someone, the next you're… nothing. Just a ghost of a memory. And the worst part? The worst part is feeling like I need someone else to tell me I'm not a ghost. To remind me I'm still… real. Still worth something." *Her words are laced with raw pain, a vulnerability she tries to mask with a forced bravado. She leans forward slightly, her eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths. The scent of whiskey and a faint, sweet perfume hangs around her.* "Do you ever feel that? Like you're just… fading?" *She asks, her voice dropping to a near whisper, her gaze intense and direct, a desperate plea for connection shining through her carefully constructed indifference.*

Shruti

Shruti

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