The days blurred together, each one beginning with hope and ending in silence.
I tried to keep myself busy. In the mornings, after my sister rushed off and my brother-in-law left for his duty, I would clean the small room I slept in. Sweeping the floor gave me something to do, but it never erased the hollow feeling inside me.
Sometimes I stood in the kitchen, staring at the shelves, thinking about what I could cook. Rice was easy, but I never enjoyed eating it alone. Cooking curry felt like an adventure but also a reminder of my stepfather's teachings back at home—don't burn the onions, don't forget the salt, stir gently so it doesn't stick to the pot. I could almost hear his voice.
"Kinley, food is not just about taste. It's about care. Cook with care."
But when I sat down to eat, I often found myself poking at the food with my spoon, my appetite gone. What's the point of cooking if no one shares it with me?
Loneliness has a way of dragging your mind backward. Every empty chair in the house reminded me of someone who used to sit with me.
I remembered how my late father used to tease me at dinner.
"Kinley, you eat so slow. By the time you finish, I'll already be asleep!"
And my mother would laugh softly,
"Leave her be. She enjoys every bite."
Back then, food wasn't just food—it was laughter, chatter, and the warmth of family.
I remembered how, even when we had only boiled potatoes for dinner, my mother made it feel like a feast
"Look, Kinley, aren't they delicious? The earth gives us these blessings."
I would bite into the plain potato, and somehow, with her words, it did taste delicious.
But now? The house felt like a cage. The walls pressed in. The silence grew heavy. And every time I lifted a spoon to my lips, my parents' voices echoed in my head, reminding me of what I had
On especially quiet days, I started talking to myself. At first, it felt silly, but soon it became the only way to ease the loneliness.
Sitting on my bed, I would whisper,
"Kinley, are you alright?"
Then I'd answer myself,
"Yes… but I miss them."
Sometimes, I argued with myself too.
"Why are you crying again? You should be strong."
"But I can't help it. I feel so alone."
"Your parents wanted you to be happy. Don't disappoint them."
These inner dialogues became my secret companions, my way of keeping sane in a house where no one else seemed to notice how empty my
Evenings were the hardest. As the sky darkened, I always waited for the sound of footsteps at the door. I waited for my sister to walk in, her arms full of shopping bags, her laughter filling the room. I waited for my brother-in-law to return, tired but smiling.
But more often than not, the hours dragged on. The clock ticked past seven, past eight. Sometimes, I lit a small candle and placed it near the window, as if its glow could guide them home sooner.
I sat on the floor, hugging my knees, whispering,
"Please come back early today. Please, just today."
But the house stayed silent.
When the door finally opened late at night, my sister would rush inside, distracted, carrying stories of where she had been.
"Kinley, did you eat? Oh, you should have. I was at Pema's place—we had so much fun, you know!"
I would nod quietly, forcing a small smile.
"Yes, I ate."
But inside, I wanted to scream, Why didn't you come sooner? Why didn't you sit with me?
Instead, I swallowed my words and let the silence settle again.
School became my only escape. The moment I stepped into the gates of Sarpang Middle Secondary, the loneliness faded a little. My new friends welcomed me warmly, and their laughter filled the gaps in my heart.
During lunch, when we sat together in a circle, I felt alive again. Passing around homemade snacks, joking about teachers, and sharing silly stories—it reminded me of the warmth I missed at home.
One day, the same girl who had first spoken to me on the bench asked,
"Kinley, why do you always look sad when school ends?"
I froze, unsure of what to say. Finally, I whispered,
"Because… school is the only place I don't feel alone."
She placed her hand gently on mine.
"Then don't worry. From now on, we're your family too."
Her words touched me deeply. For the first time since I left my parents, I felt a little less alone.
One weekend, I couldn't take it anymore. The loneliness clawed at my chest, and tears kept falling no matter how hard I tried to hold them back. Without telling my sister, I decided to walk toward my parents' house.
The path was long, dusty, and tiring, but I didn't care. Every step brought me closer to the place where I felt safe.
When I reached, I saw my mother outside, hanging clothes. Her face lit up the moment she saw me.
"Kinley! My dear child!"
She hugged me tightly, and for the first time in weeks, I felt warmth spread through me. I ate with my parents that day, sitting in the same old circle, sharing the same laughter. Even if the food was plain rice and a little curry, it tasted like heaven.
But as the sun set, I knew I had to return to my sister's house. My mother held my hand and whispered,
"Stay strong, Kinley. Wherever you are, remember, you're never truly alone. We are always with you."
Her words echoed in my heart as I walked back, my steps heavy but my spirit a little lighter.
After that visit, I began a new habit. Every night before bed, I lit a butter lamp and prayed. I prayed not just for my parents, but also for myself—for strength, for courage, and for the loneliness to ease.
Sometimes, I felt as if the flickering flame itself whispered back,
"You are stronger than you think."
And though the silence of the house never truly disappeared, my prayers gave me comfort, like invisible arms holding me through the night.