New Year's Eve by Giya Sood (16, India)

[Content warning: anxiety]

​New Year’s Eve, the end of another beginning, always seems to bring about a bittersweet sense of melancholy, an in-between phase. For some, Christmas lights still loom over balconies while, for others, it is just another regimented day. This year, instead of spending this obscure holiday in the comfort of my own home, I have been coerced by my mother to attend a soirée of sorts. Just a bitter end for me this year.

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Movement, incessant movement. Lights swirling over, under and through hordes of sweaty organisms swaying near each other in an abstract rhythm, oblivious of the deafening music swerving through the hot thick air. It aches to watch and feel the buzzing of the event. Every atom in my body is suppressing the urge to heave. The stench. I can feel it envelop me in its feline talons, pressing into my sternum, forcing a lump of bolus into my gullet. What a party.

Hey, says a slurring voice. Turning around, I see a whimsical boy smirking in my direction and holding out a cup containing a muddy looking liquid. Get it out, get a word out, I tell myself. Unable to spew any words from my mouth, I take the cup and scurry away. The bodies. They push against me, taunting me, shoving me back into my dark hole. No, I tell myself, I am not going back there. Holding my breath, I maneuver through the crowd. That is it, I tell myself; take it one-step at a time. Steps, I see steps. Sitting on them, I feel the heat from my body slowly descend. It has been a while, says a haunting voice. Standing in front of me is a girl, a ghostly figure of my past, her eyes gawking at my pasty self. Say something, I tell myself, anything. Digging my nail into my thumb, I stand up and feel my legs seize control of myself.

Running, I am running. I whisper to myself, do not do this. I feel them coming. They are sprinting down my cheeks, flooding my eyes. Stopping now, I can feel the lactic acid churning in my stomach. Gasping, I swear I physically feel the lack of oxygen in my olfactory nerve. Sitting on the sidewalk, the tears couldn’t have been held back. I wasn’t always like this.

I remember when I was okay. When I longed to be dependent, longed for interaction and approval. To be suffocated by peer pressure, to have the urge to succumb to social norms. This, this disease has possessed my body. I used to have friends. I miss it. Pretending to be pretentiously intellectual, what a joyous façade. I miss talking about frivolous things, meaningless things. Now, I feel the nerves enchaining my mind, prohibiting me from being myself.

One step at a time, I told myself again. Walk home, that’s all you have to do, I tell myself as I try not think about her. Not a friend exactly but more of an admired acquaintance. Well, she used to be. Her life, well, there are no complexities. With not a care in the world, she interacts. Having mastered the art of social decorum, she moves through throngs of people like an enigmatic, confident creature. To exude confidence like that, I’d give anything. To be so captivating, to not run away from the limelight, just to bask in its glory for a moment, I’d n give anything. She is not undeniably appealing to look at, far from it in fact. Her hair a pale brown and her eyes almost black, she is lean but not tall. It is just the way she talks and moves. Not a nervous twitch in sight. That relationship came to an abrupt end a long time ago.

Home, there it is. Sighing, I feel as if I have been holding my breath the entire time. I open the door to see my mother standing in the kitchen, so delighted that I had made an effort to socialize. Strenuously, her skin stretched into a tired smile. How was it dear, she said, trying not to sound too eager. Wanting to put a smile on her face before this year came to an end, looking up at her, I say, fun.

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