Anshu Subedi

They don’t tell you about the silence. Not in the movies. Not in the stories. But for us, it was always the morning after. That’s when I knew you still loved me. You see, we used to fight.. not often, but hard. The kind of fights where no one really wins, where words feel heavier than fists and the silence afterward rings louder than any door slam. And I had go to bed angry, eyes open in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it could somehow hold me better than you did that night. But then morning would come. Soft. Slow. Almost apologetic. And every time.. without fail.. you had kiss my forehead. Like a habit. Like a promise. Like saying, I still choose you, even after all that. You never thought I knew. But I always did. I had keep my eyes closed just long enough for you to think I was still asleep. Just long enough to hold the moment between us..that quiet, sacred thing..a little longer. I never told you how much I loved those mornings. I didn’t want you to know that I waited for the...

          I know what love looks like at 6:13 in the morning. It’s sunlight slipping through the cracks of red curtains, landing soft on your cheek, and the way your arms pull me in tighter like you’re afraid the dream will end if you let go. I never needed an alarm clock after that..not when your chest rising and falling was louder than any ring tone in the world. I close the curtains so you can sleep a little longer. I whisper, “Good morning,” but only loud enough for the walls to know. You hold my hand while I slip into my shirt, like you can’t trust the air to keep me close. And I smile, because I like being missed even in my own kitchen. I walk in slow, the floor cold but the thought of making you pancakes warmer than fire. Banana ones..the ones you don’t even like. And coffee you won’t drink. But I make them anyway, because love isn’t about taste, it’s about offering. About effort. About showing up again and again in small, ordinary ways. You wake up with ...

प्रिय आमा, तिमीभन्दा टाढा हुँदा हप्तामा एकपटक समय निकालेर फोन गर्थें, सम्झन्छु... सधैं उही गुनासो : “फोन गरिराख्न मिल्दैन?” तिमी भन्छ्यौ : “एक डिब्बा घ्यू हालेर पठाइ दिन्छु, सकेसम्म दिनदिनै थोरैथोरै खानु।” मेरी आमा, तिमीले मलाई थोरै थोरै गरेर खाइरहनु भन्छ्यौ, तर म थोरै थोरै गरेर आफैँलाई गुमाइरहेकी छु। तिमीले हप्तामा एकपटक फोन गर भनेर गुनासो गर्यौ, फुर्सद निकालेर गरें, र फेरि उही आवाज : “फोन किन उठेन? पानी खाइस् कि? ए... म त एक डिब्बा घ्यू राखेकी छु, सके थोरै थोरै गरेर खाइजा।” तिमीले मलाई कहिल्यै नछोड्ने एउटा डिब्बा दिन थाल्यौ, सकेपछि फेरि ल्याउने गर्यौ, त्यही पुरानो डिब्बा, नयाँ मायाले भरिएको। तर आमा, कहिल्यै सोधिनौ : “तँ पनि त रित्तिँदै गइरहेकी छेस् है?” छोरी हुनु भनेको, सधैं आमा भएर बाँच्नु रहेछ .. आफ्ना घाउहरू लुकाउँदै, अरूका आँशु पुछ्दै। मेरी आमा, तिमीले मलाई हरेक कुरा सिकायौ, तर नरम हुन कहिल्यै दिनौ। तिमी आफैं नरम हुन पाइनौ। छोरी हुनु शाप तब बन्छ, जब माया दिनेलाई माया माग्न लाज लाग्छ .. किनभने हामीलाई 'देऊ' भनेर होइन, 'सह' भनेर हुर्काइयो। त...