I Wrote It Down Instead

By Sini Jerome

I didn't reply to the WhatsApp messages.

Fifteen unread, then twenty-three—

grey ticks sitting like quiet reminders.

So I wrote it down instead—

₹30 notebook from the station, pages curling in the humidity.

The pen skips; I press harder.

Woke up. Ceiling fan. Crows. Nothing else.

The page doesn't flinch when I write the same sentence

three days running. Doesn't ask

why I can't just try harder, think positive, pray more.

I write around the edges first—what I had for breakfast (nothing),

what time I showered (didn’t). Then, if I’m brave: I wanted to

disappear today.

My mother thinks I'm studying.

The scratch of pen on paper

sounds productive enough.

Some days it's just: Tuesday. Hot. Tired of being tired.

The ink bleeds through cheap paper. I watch it spread and feel something—

proof of pressure, proof of hand.

The notebook knows I'm furious—

at my brain for breaking, at my body for not keeping up,

at the pressure cooker whistling that makes me want to scream.

I don’t write to heal.

I write because it’s 4 p.m. and I’m still on the floor,

and the page is the only thing that doesn’t need me to be okay.

Still here. Wedged between the bed and the wall. Wrote this. Just this. All this.

Some days, that's it.

The page still holds the words

I can't say aloud.

By Sini Jerome