"Unanswered Goodbyes, Silence of Regrets & The Hollowed Heart of a Home"

I miss you maa :)

I spoke in whispers, too little, too late,
Wishing I’d known how near the gate,
Where time would close and steal away
The chance for words I didn’t say.

Unanswered goodbyes linger in the air,
Like unsent letters I couldn’t share.

Regret's heavy hand rests on my chest,
For the moments I lost, the love unexpressed.
I thought I had time, but it slipped away,
Now I’m left with words I can’t convey.

Your chair still sits by the windowpane,
But it’s empty now, and so is the frame.
Of the life we could have shared much more,
Yet I stand alone by this open door.

In this hollowed heart of a home, I roam,
Seeking your warmth but finding none.
The walls are quiet, but they hold the truth—
That love delayed is love I lose.

Unanswered goodbyes, forever they’ll stay,
A silence of regrets, too hard to allay.

 "So…," she started, drawing out the word as if it were a string she was about to pluck. "Is there someone? You know, someone more than just a friend?" Her eyebrows wiggled in mischief, and I nearly choked on my laughter.

"Mummaa yaar !" I shrieked, swatting the air with my racket as if I could swat away the conversation itself. She laughed even harder, that kind of laugh that starts small and grows until it fills the space between you. But that was her way—always probing, always curious, but never judgmental. 

God, what I wouldn’t give to hear that laugh again, to have her teasing me about boys, about life, about everything. What I wouldn’t give to have her back, just for a moment, just for one more round on the court, one more conversation where she’s half-joking but wholly invested in making sure I knew how much she loved me.

I remember the way she’d sit beside me, pencil in hand, her face wearing that familiar expression of quiet concentration. She always had a way of pulling out the deepest thoughts, shaping them into something tangible, something beautiful. We’d pick random topics—sometimes mundane, sometimes profound—and just start writing. But it wasn’t just the writing—it was the conversations that followed. I loved hearing her insights, her thoughts about characters, plots, and life itself. I remember once, as we were sitting at the dining table, she slid a worn-out notebook toward me with a smile. It was her diary from college, filled with scribbled thoughts, poems, and reflections from a time before I even existed.

There was this one passage, I’ll never forget, where she had written, “The world may never see me for who I am on these pages, but I’ll keep writing anyway, just in case it ever does.” I didn’t realize it at the time, but those words stayed with me. She was always writing for herself, for the pure love of it, not for recognition or applause. It was a lesson I still carry with me—writing isn’t about being seen; it’s about expressing something so deeply personal that it becomes a piece of your soul.

I miss those late-night conversations about books we were reading, how we'd argue over characters and their choices as if they were real people we knew. I miss the way her eyes lit up when she’d discover a new poem or author, and how she’d insist I read it right away, like it was something too precious to keep to herself.

Now, the house feels different without her. There are no more shared glances over half-written pieces, no more impromptu discussions about whether we should use a comma or a semicolon in a sentence. The pages I write now feel a little emptier, a little less whole, because her feedback is missing. But every now and then, when I’m stuck on a line or struggling to find the right word, I think of her. I imagine what she’d say, how she’d laugh and tell me to stop overthinking and just write.