The soft whirr of her fan was the only sound in the room.
Masti pulled out her leather-bound journal, the one she used when her mind felt like too many tabs open at once. She flipped past old lists and quotes, finding a clean page.
Her pen hovered.
Then, slowly, the ink began to flow:
April 6
I don’t hate my job.
I don’t love it either.
I just… don’t feel anything anymore.
I complete tasks. I respond to emails. I smile in meetings.
But inside, I’m watching someone else do it all.
Like I’m floating outside my own life.
I want to feel lit up again. Moved. Alive.
But I’m so tired. And numb.
Even the things I love—K-dramas, anime, writing—they feel like distant countries I once lived in.
What happened to me?
She sighed, closed the journal, and ran her fingers over the cover like it could give her an answer.
Just then, her phone buzzed. “Amma Calling…”
She stared at the screen a moment too long.
Then answered.
“Hi Amma,” she said, softening her voice into something cheery.
“Hi kanna! Just wanted to hear your voice. You’ve been quiet these days.”
“Oh, you know how it is,” Masti said, standing up and walking to the kitchen. “Busy with work. Deadlines. Meetings. Nothing new.”
Her mother hummed, unconvinced. “Are you eating properly? You’re not skipping meals again, no?”
“I’m fine, Amma. Just had coffee.” She opened the fridge. “And I’ll make some noodles in a bit.”
“That’s not a meal,” her mother said gently. “You need real food, Masti.”
Masti smiled faintly. “Yes, Amma.”
There was a pause—just long enough for something real to slip through. But Masti didn’t let it.
“I might come visit next weekend,” her mother offered.
“Hmm… let’s see. Work’s been a lot,” Masti replied quickly, already feeling the weight of performing her good-daughter self.
“Okay, kanna. Just don’t disappear into your laptop completely. Life is not only about work.”
“I know,” Masti said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Love you, Amma.”
“Love you too, ma.”
The call ended.
Masti returned to her desk, picked up the journal again, and under her last line wrote:
I lied again. But only a little.
I wish I could tell her.
I wish I knew what to say.
She closed the book, hugging it to her chest like a pillow.
memajuve 