Ⅰ

NADIA lay on her desk, head pressed on the keyboard, a trail of random alphabets running a lousy run on her computer screen. Life was a slow doodle on the edge of a history textbook, it went round and round, overlapped, overtook, overran, so now it was a loop going through a loop.

Above her a lizard scuttled away into the darkness of her clock; five twenty.

It had been five twenty an hour ago, and an hour before that, and an hour before that; the word count on her document showed 1.

Naida remembered fixing herself a quick breakfast, settling into her desk, and opening Word; she remembered doing so, only a minute ago.

What passed—time or memory, she could not tell. When she turned around, toward the grilled window, curtains swaying up and down, sunlit dust speckling around them, Nadia felt a sudden clarity.

It wasn't a clarity of thoughts or of determination, Nadia's burn out finally called out to her; That's it. That's too much.

It wasn't dark yet, Nadia decided she wouldn't be gone long.

Out of the house and on the street.

Ⅱ

NADIA did not know what to do. She stood outside her sister's school. The gates closed, a watchman sitting on a broken chair, head nodding off.

School ended at 1 o'clock, it was five forty-five. The building seemed to be nodding off to a slumber too, like the watchman. Its omniscient eyes that judge all, and lofty height that demands attention, now looked lonely. Fragile and sad.

Nadia felt uncomfortable standing there, she was  walking into School's vulnerable solitude, unwelcomed. If she focused, she could hear the soft, stifled sobs, she could see School's protruding lips quiver, big and brown, right in the middle wing.

It was a non-verbal conversation, a silent feeling, from here to there. School beckoned Nadia;

Why are you here?

School sounded indifferent, and yet somehow warm. Like youthful embraces.

I don't know . . .

They went quiet again. Nadia did not know she was doing it, but slowly, delicate movements, she stretched her arm toward the boundaried wall, hand staying still as though asking permission, and then resting there on the textured wall.

She felt alone, not lonely, but alone. Like School.

She felt old, she felt young— unprepared, she felt betrayed, she felt giving, and yet so selfish. Slid down next to the wall, head leaning, hands holding, she felt in a brief, silent, weak moment—understood.

The silent road, blue evening, white lamp light, the world at the end of the street stilled for a moment. 

And Nadia decided she would start again.

Ⅲ

SIMPLE things bring with them a strange vagueness. They sneak up on you; slow, opaque.

Like the cooing pigeons stationed by your window, early mornings. Like vegetable markets and their earthy sniff. Like paint peeling off walls, like the sound of the cracked ceiling fan you've learnt to sleep through. Like the yellow lamp posts on your empty street at midnight.

Nadia walked. She knew that the latest text on her phone said, 'Tomorrow'. But the previous evening had brought with it a tired simplicity and even if temporary, Nadia had forgotten how to panic. 

Tomorrow.

She would not wait till tomorrow. She sat on a bench, resting her laptop bag next to her. Fished out her phone and dialed. Maybe it was reckless, unconscious, and maybe Nadia would regret.

'Hey? Good you called, I was about to—

'I'll drop by tomorrow to submit my leave application. I'll be leaving town after the process is over.'

Ⅳ

THE publishing house was Nadia's family. They took her in when she was only a struggling writer with one self published book and a measly online presence.  Nadia declined at first. They, to her, were a measly presence; here today, gone tomorrow.

But now, five years in, Nadia felt a tender love for the company. A nurturing, growing one. On her first day, there were only six members including her. She remembered when they were still moving in furniture, setting their desktops, designing business cards, and at the end of days they'd all sit around a table, drink stale soda. She remembered how they all bickered and mocked each other.

'Uh . . . okay? Nadia, what's up?'

'Nothing, I'll just be gone for sometime. And don't worry, I'll submit all the blurbs before I go. I've also contacted the cover—'

'Yah, all that is good. But . . . 

'Okay. Then drop by tomorrow, we'll have a little feast.'

Nadia was glad she didn't have to answer why. She called up her uncle, asked if she could stay with them, he said she never had to leave in the first place.