Part-6 The Silence of Our Room

The day I entered our room — the one that held countless memories — my heart sank. That same room where we once lived together, laughed endlessly, spent sleepless nights talking, watching movies, ordering food, and going out. That room wasn’t just a place… it was our little world, filled with warmth, laughter, and love.

When I opened the door, a strange emptiness hit me so hard that I couldn’t even breathe. The room was a mess — people had been there and turned it upside down. Everything was scattered, broken, disturbed. It felt like someone had shattered a piece of my soul. My hands trembled, and for a moment, I couldn’t even move. Memories were hitting me like a truck — one after another — and it took me so long to gather myself.

I never knew I could love someone so deeply that their absence would hurt more than any physical pain. I never knew missing someone could make breathing itself feel heavy.

People say material things don’t matter, but they do — when they carry memories. Let me count a few…

As I entered the flat, the first thing I saw was her shoes. Without even realizing, I picked them up and pressed them against my chest. Tears wouldn’t stop. Then I saw our slippers — the ones we bought together, the same design in different sizes — lying there carelessly, and that alone was enough to break me again. She used to love our matching things, those little “us” moments in everything we owned.

Then I saw her calendar — the cute one she bought herself. She had filled every page with small notes, travel plans, and study topics for NEET PG. It was lying near the door, crushed and dusty. Around it were papers — so many papers — from our car documents to her AIIMS and NEET forms we filled together. Every single thing screamed her name.

Then there was her bottle — that small, cute one we bought for a DIY project. Purple flowers on it. She was so particular about drinking enough water every day to keep her skin hydrated. I used to fill that 500 ml bottle countless times through the day — and always made sure it was full before leaving for hospital. Those small things… that’s what love truly is.

My eyes then fell on the glass vase — empty. I used to fill it with fresh flowers for her. I never let it stay empty, not even for a day. Sometimes we used to buy flowers together, laughing over which ones to pick. But seeing that vase empty… it broke something deep inside me.

I haven’t cried this much in my whole life — never — and this time, it was alone, surrounded by the ghost of everything we were.

Then I saw that little diary — purple, tiny, like a keychain — the one I gave her in the mall. She loved cute notebooks even if they were uselessly small. That one couldn’t even hold two lines of writing, but when I gave it to her, her face lit up like a child’s.

Next to it lay the Rubik’s cube — the one I solved after struggling the whole night, nearly 10 hours, while she slept beside me. When she woke up, she was so proud, clapping and laughing. She was my cheerleader. She believed in me when I didn’t. And now without her, I’m nothing but a dark lamp — burnt out, empty.

Then there was our folding study table — the one we used for eating while watching movies and TV shows on the projector. I could almost see us sitting there, sharing noodles, laughing, talking about everything and nothing.

Her clothes were still in the wardrobe. Untouched. Waiting. Silent witnesses of what we once were.

Then I saw that small teddy — the one that always slept between us. We used to talk to it, joke around, even when we fought, I would hug that teddy like it was her. It became a mini version of her — something I could hold when she wasn’t in my arms.

By then I wasn’t even standing anymore. I fell to the floor. My vision blurred through the tears, the world spinning around me. I felt lifeless, surrounded by all our memories turned to mess.

But I knew she never liked seeing things untidy. I gathered my strength, wiped my face, and started cleaning. Slowly, painfully. Every item I touched had her scent, her trace, her love.

I remembered that day when I came home tired and she had pulled everything off the bed just to clean and sort things. I was so proud that day — proud that I chose her, proud that she was mine.

I went to the washroom to wash my tears, but even there, she was everywhere. Her haircare bottles, her skincare items — all still in their places, as if she’d just left for work. And then I saw that cute soap holder — the one with the little smiling face. Who decorates a washroom with green string leaves around the mirror and pink brush holders? Only she did. Only my baby girl.

Somehow, I managed to clean the mess. But the tears didn’t stop. I picked up her Asics sweatshirt, wore it, and lay down on the floor — the scent of her still clinging to it. I don’t know how long I stayed there, crying until my chest hurt, until I couldn’t take it anymore.

Then I took the car keys, left the flat, and drove away. Away from the noise, away from the walls that still whispered her name.