New Beginnings

CW: Mental health, suicide or self harm

Yellow street lamps flicker on as a beautiful rhythm drifts from the corner radio shop. A long line forms at the newly opened coffee shop. Cars pass by, and the city braces itself for the sweet tears of clouds hanging heavily above.

A window in a brown building swings open with a heavy gust. Inside, a tall man with light brown eyes stands in a black suit. He adjusts a gray tie with black stripes around his collar shirt, studying his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, he hesitates, as though unsure of the man staring back. Then a small perfume bottle finds its way into his hands, and he spritzes a hint of fragrance onto his clothes, letting the scent settle around him.

Approaching a small table near the bed, he picks up a tag that reads BAKERY AND GOODS, underneath which is signed “Dev Singhania.” For a long moment, he stares at it—his thumb gently rubbing over the inked letters, as though grounding himself in the life he built behind that name. He sets it back down with care.

Opening a drawer, he retrieves his wallet. Flipping it open, he reveals a photo of a couple in their mid-twenties. His expression tightens. He quickly closes the wallet and tosses it onto the bed before sitting down, covering his face with trembling hands.

After a few seconds, he lies back on the bed, gazing at the glowing stars painted on the ceiling—tiny plastic shapes he stuck there years ago, ones he never took down. He shuts his eyes tightly, and for a moment, the room is silent except for the distant hum of the street. Eventually, he opens his eyes again and sits up abruptly.

He strolls to the calendar hanging above the vintage closet, tracing the date “28,” marked for a “College Reunion Party.” His finger lingers there as though unsure whether to move forward or step back.

Lost in thought, he wanders the room with his hands stuffed in his pockets. A glance out the window reveals a couple walking with a little boy, their laughter echoing freely through the still evening. He watches them for a moment too long—something soft and aching forming in his chest. Leaning against the closet, his hands begin to shake, and soon, he finds himself pounding his fist against the door, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

Returning to the bed, he clutches a pillow tightly against his chest, eyes clenched shut. His lips move silently, as if fighting to express something he’s held inside far too long. Finally, he releases the pillow and sets it aside. Opening the closet again, he takes out a sketchbook and a pencil. Settling on the floor, his back against the bed, he begins to draw. His fingers move frantically across the page, lines forming almost faster than he can process. Slowly, the blank sheet transforms into a sketch of a building labeled “Foster Home.” A tear escapes his eye and falls onto the drawing, creating a faint smudge. He buries his face in the sketchbook, crying quietly.

After a moment, he composes himself, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. His gaze drifts to an orange bottle on the table labeled “Sleeping Pills.” Rising, he removes his blazer and sets it neatly on the bed. He pours a glass of water and takes a slow sip, letting the coolness settle his breath.

He walks toward the gray-colored couch and notices a small yellow ball with a smiley face. He picks it up and squeezes it tightly, feeling the faint squeak it makes—a sound he remembers relying on during long, tense nights. After a moment, he places it gently back on the sofa. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a chocolate bar, opens the wrapper with care, and takes a small bite, letting the sweetness calm him just a little before wrapping the rest and tucking it away again.

Sitting on the couch, he checks his watch and notes that it is six o’clock. He taps the glass cover of the watch before glancing back at the calendar. The seconds pass slowly, like they are waiting for him to decide something only he can decide.

Rising again, he retrieves a blue bag from the top of the closet. Inside, he finds a black-covered yearbook titled “CLASS OF 1992.” Opening it, he lets his fingers trail over the glossy pages filled with young faces in caps and gowns, frozen in time. He pauses at the names Nathan and Pooja—friends he hasn’t seen in years. Their smiles seem to reach out to him, untouched by the years that have weighed him down.

A faint sniff escapes him as he moves toward the window, just in time to see a caramel popcorn stall passing by. The warm scent drifts up faintly. Reaching into his pocket again, he pulls out another photo: a young boy holding a bag of caramel popcorn, grinning with the kind of joy Dev hasn’t felt in a long time. He glances back outside, where a family shares the same treat, their laughter floating up as if deliberately reminding him of something he lost. Turning away, he tucks the photo back and closes his eyes for a brief moment to steady himself.

When he opens them, a truck drives by, its side displaying a poster that reads “Heal and Move On.” The words linger in his mind like an echo—soft, persistent, impossible to ignore.

He turns to the table and spots a broken, colorful vase beneath it. Kneeling, he retrieves the pieces and fetches glue from the drawer. Settling onto the floor, he carefully begins reassembling the vase piece by piece, his hands steadying with each connection he makes. When he’s done, he places the vase on the table with a faint nod of approval. Stepping out of the room briefly, he returns with yellow and pink flowers and arranges them gently inside the restored vase.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and he glances out the window as the wind rattles the panes. His phone buzzes, pulling his attention back. Picking it up, he sees a message from Nathan: “Where are you, Dev? Pooja and I are waiting! The party is starting!”

Setting the phone down, he picks up his wallet from the bed. Taking a deep breath, he flips it open again, revealing the photo of the young couple. On the back, written in blue pen, are the words, “I miss you, Mom and Dad.” His throat tightens. Gripped by emotion, he tears the photo into pieces and tosses them out the window just as rain begins to fall. The drops scatter the pieces across the wet street below. Dev closes the window quickly.

Back at the table, he picks up the bottle of sleeping pills. He hesitates for only a moment before striding to the garbage bin and tossing it in with finality. Returning to the bed, he retrieves his phone and slides it along with his wallet into his pocket. He puts on his blazer once more and picks up the yearbook.

Pausing at the door, he turns back to the mirror. For the first time that evening, a small smile forms on his lips—soft but real. Then he steps out, closing the door gently behind him.