We often measure dreams with careers, passports, degrees, or independence. But sometimes, someone’s dream is not louder—it’s quieter. It lives in the kitchen, in the soft fold of a saree, in prayers whispered for every family member before sleep.

Yes, I am the middle child. But I have never identified with the usual clichés—neither the glue nor the black sheep. I was simply the one no one worried about. The toughest, the strongest, the most confident, the kindest, the most reliable. Qualities that others admired but that carried more weight than most realized.

For the most part I loved how I looked, because at fifteen you don’t stand in front of the mirror - naked - to dissect and tear yourself apart from every possible angle.  Since then the numbers on the weighing scales have gone up and down and I have accepted that they will, for the entirety of my life - through girlhood, through womanhood, pregnancy and motherhood.

Suddenly, the prospect of war wasn’t distant anymore. Friends were being posted to forward areas. Equipment was moving. I didn’t want to ask, “Will my husband be next?” But the question screamed silently in every corner of my brain. “Even if he does, it will always work out for the best.” Because that’s what I married into. A promise. A uniform that stands for something far bigger than both of us.

We didn’t fit the ideal Indian family narrative—no heir, no “ghar ka chirag.” Raised eyebrows, hushed gossip, and unsolicited blessings for a male child followed us everywhere. The absence of a boy seemed like a flaw only outsiders could see. But inside our home, we were complete.

I always had two worlds - Inner and Outer. My letters carried my inner world. I am not great at talking about myself. I had letters to talk about my world. Everyone processes life differently. In all my letters, I processed mine.

Victor brings out his running shoes. I pretend to go back to sleep as he slams the door behind him almost pausing the river stream outside the window. As paused as the air between us that stood still; ever since we watched love leave the room. Stinging bitterness encircles me as his furious footsteps fade away. Suffocating.