She never planned on becoming anything.
Nira was nineteen, freshly out of school but still wrapped tightly in the warmth of her mother’s world—homemade food, constant reminders, soft scolding’s, and a room that always smelled of sandalwood and soap. Her friends were applying to universities, exploring careers, falling in love. Nira, meanwhile, spent her days confused on how to start her next phase of life, binge-watching dramas, and telling herself there’s still time and decided to drop a year to prepare for different competitive exams, afraid of leaving her home and explore the world.
She lived without a map, and that didn’t bother her. Not yet.
Her mother, Meera, was the opposite. Organized. Graceful. Always with a list in hand. Nira never saw her cry. Never saw her break. Meera smiled even when Nira was rude. She covered for her daughter’s laziness with careful excuses to relatives. She never asked for anything, except maybe a little effort, a little responsibility, a little ambition.
But Nira didn’t listen. Why would she? The nest was warm. She had all she needed.
Then came the storm.
It happened on a Tuesday.
Just a regular, mundane day. The kind Nira loved.
She’d just woken up past noon when the shouting started downstairs. A scream, sharp and feral, ripped through the house. It was her aunt. Nira stumbled out of bed, disoriented, still half-asleep.
The words came in pieces.
“Meera...”
“Upstairs...”
“Locked the door...”
“She... she’s gone.”
No note. No call. Just... silence.
The world shattered. Her father came from office early and was shocked. He became speechless for a long time as he just couldn't understand what happened.
Nira stands frozen. Her aunt clutches the doorframe of the bedroom across the hall. Inside, people rush in. We don’t see Meera.
Only Nira’s face. Pale. Confused.
The scream fades into muffled silence. Relatives speak in hushed tones. The house feels full and empty at once.
Nira sits motionless on the couch. Her phone buzzes again, ignored.
Her eyes wander to her mother’s mug, still on the table. Lipstick stain intact.
Aunt approaches, tries to hand her food. Nira doesn’t react.
The house became an empty stage. Familiar things felt unfamiliar. Her mother’s favorite mug still had lipstick on the rim. Her planner was open to the week’s chores. The bed sheets were freshly washed. The last chore, lunch was cooked and kept in the kitchen. No one knows what time it was.
Hours passed. There was no sign of pain. No sign of goodbye. Grief didn’t come in tears. For Nira, it came in questions.
Why?
Was it something I did?
Why didn’t I see it?
Why didn’t she tell me anything?
No one had answers.
For days, Nira didn’t move.
Relatives buzzed around her like moths. Food was offered. Hugs were given. She felt nothing. Her phone lay untouched. The house felt like a museum. She kept thinking: She was always there. Always. How could she just... not be anymore?
Then one night, as rain pounded the windows, Nira opened her mother’s closet. Among the neatly folded sarees and lavender sachets, she found something strange: a journal. Not one for memories or dreams—just a log of worries.
Every page spoke of stress, of being tired of hiding pain. Silent, quiet suffering. A line stood out, scribbled in the margin:
“I’m afraid Nira won’t be okay without me.”
Nira clutched the book and cried—for the first time. Not just for her mother’s absence. But for the realization that she hadn’t really known her.
That was the storm.
Not the death. But the awakening.
For the first time, Nira felt the emptiness of being directionless. And it terrified her. She didn’t know where to begin. But she knew she couldn’t live the way she had. Not anymore. Her comfort zone had collapsed.
So she started to concentrate on her studies. Managing the house, taking care of her father and brother. Reading books her mother once loved. Writing down her thoughts. Then bigger steps—taking a basic course online, applying for internships, talking to people. Listening. Paying attention.
She stumbled. Failed. Wanted to quit a hundred times. But she didn’t.
Because now, she carried something heavier than indecision—the responsibility of memory.
Months passed.
One morning, as she walked out to catch a bus to her part-time job, her father looked at her and said gently,
“You’re changing, Nira. She would’ve been proud.”
Nira smiled—not fully, not yet. But a real one.
The kind that knows pain. And purpose.
She had finally begun to spin her cocoon.
Not out of hope. But out of survival.
Not because she wanted to fly—
But because she finally understood why she couldn’t stay grounded forever.
Finally, she decided to leave her home which was her cocoon till now, move to the central city to explore her potential and to find the purpose in life.
Her father got worried initially with this decision but permitted her to live all by herself away from the comfort zone she was having till now.
Nira, now has found a new beginning for herself with a purpose which Meera would've been proud of.
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