The Breaking Point

 Okay. It’s broken. The normal spell is shattered, and everything is chaos again. It happened today—sudden, sharp, like a switch flipping without warning. One moment, I was holding it together. The next, I wasn’t. Words were spoken, actions followed, and just like that, I was unraveling.

I tried to contain it. Swallow it down. But the weight of it pressed against my ribs, lodged in my throat like something jagged and unrelenting.

I was at a friend’s room for Iftar, surrounded by people, playing my part. For the most part, it felt as normal as things could get for me. But then it happened.

Someone said something—offhand, derisive, laced with accusation. They called me nagging when all I had done was confirm something that involved them. A small fracture. I told myself to ignore it. But then came the second blow.

I asked the same friend to bring something. Something simple. They refused. I thought they were joking because why wouldn’t they be? It wasn’t as if I had asked them to bring me Kohinoor. But they weren’t joking. They simply wouldn’t do it.

When they returned, I checked the bags they brought, searching for what I had asked for. It wasn’t there. And something inside me collapsed.

I don’t know why that was the breaking point. Maybe because it wasn’t about the thing I asked for—it was about being dismissed, disregarded, made to feel like I didn’t matter. It was about all the moments before this one, all the times I had been made to feel like I was asking for too much just by existing.

But I controlled my emotions. I swallowed the words clawing at my throat, buried the weight pressing against my chest, and went with the flow. Because that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done.

After Iftar, we got in a friend’s car, drove around, smoked, and had tea. On the surface, it was nothing. Just another night. But inside my head, it was war. I kept replaying the scene from before, dissecting every word, every shift in expression, every dismissive tone. I felt disgusted with myself, for allowing it to affect me, for caring. I wanted to disappear. I went completely silent.

If they noticed, they didn’t say anything. Maybe they didn’t care. Maybe they were just used to it. One friend did ask what happened, but I shrugged it off, too tired to explain, too exhausted to be vulnerable.

When we got back for Biryani, I couldn’t stay there. The person who had done me wrong was acting as if nothing had happened, as if I didn’t exist. And maybe I didn’t—to them. Maybe I never really did.

I even said it out loud—"Log kehne karne se pehle sochte nahi ki words, actions ka kya asar hoga." But my words meant nothing. They faded into the air, unnoticed, unacknowledged, just like me.

And the worst part? Despite everything, despite the hurt, despite knowing exactly where I stand—I still wanted to talk to them. I still wanted to be heard. I still wanted to matter.

I felt so disgusted with myself.

I couldn’t stay.

I needed to move.

So I left. Silently. Leaving them to their biryani, to their laughter, to a world where my absence wouldn’t even be noticed. I didn’t want to spoil their meal. Not that it would have mattered.

I walked out, letting the night swallow me. My feet moved without direction, without thought—just a desperate need to escape. Though I knew better than anyone that you can’t outrun the weight inside you. Still, I walked. Past the almost-empty streets, past flickering street lights, past shops closing for the night. And then, without realizing how I got there, I stood before Jama Masjid.

The sign for Qabristan caught my eye. A whisper. A calling. Without thinking, I stepped inside.

The graveyard stretched before me, silent and endless, each grave a quiet testament to an end. I walked deeper and then my legs gave out.

I fell to my knees.

And I broke.

The sobs came violently, tearing through me as if they had been waiting, as if they had been locked inside for too long. I was alone. Just me and the dead, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t have to pretend.

I cried for the version of me that had died a thousand times before. I cried for the loneliness, for the endless cycle of breaking and pretending to be whole.

I stayed there for half an hour. Maybe more. Time didn’t feel real in that place. Just the dark sky, the cold air, and the quiet presence of those who had already left.

The entire time, I couldn’t stop crying.

I looked at the graves around me and thought—this is where I belong.

Here. Among them. Beneath the earth, where the weight of existence would finally lift. Where silence wouldn’t feel so suffocating. Where I wouldn’t have to keep fighting for a place in a world that had no room for me.

And so, I made up my mind.

I didn’t think about my sister’s wedding. I didn’t think about my innocent daughter. In that moment, none of it mattered. I just wanted the ache to stop. I just wanted it all to end.

I forced myself to my feet, gathering whatever strength I had left, and looked up at the sky, waiting—maybe for a sign, maybe for hesitation, maybe for something to tell me I was wrong.

But nothing happened.

So I walked.

I reached the nearest railway crossing and sat down on the cold steel tracks.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through pictures and videos of my daughter. Her laughter frozen in time, her bright eyes looking at me as if I was someone worth loving. Worth keeping.

I recorded a video for her. My voice was steady, almost eerily calm. I didn’t say goodbye—I couldn’t. I just told her that I loved her, that she should never doubt how much she mattered. I needed her to know that none of this was her fault.

Then, I turned flight mode on.

And I waited.

Minutes passed. Then more.

Still, no train.

After a while, I turned flight mode off. My hands were shaking as I unlocked my phone, my mind still teetering on the edge. And yet, despite everything, despite the overwhelming weight pressing down on my chest, I did what I always do—I reached out.

I texted the person who had hurt me. Told them that today’s breakdown was on them. That their arrogance, their carelessness, their ability to dismiss me so easily had led me here. That they had made me feel neglected and abandoned, despite all the promises they had made to never do so.

And guess what?

They didn’t apologize. They didn’t acknowledge what they had done. Instead, they blamed me.

They said all of them had been looking for me. That they had been worried. As if that changed anything. As if that erased what had already been done.

I told them the truth. That I had come here to commit suicide.

That’s when they shifted. The moment the weight of my words hit them, they went on the defensive. Suddenly, it wasn’t about me anymore—it was about them. About how I was making them feel. About how I was being unfair.

They didn’t care that I had spent the last hour crying in a graveyard, mourning a life I had already given up on. They just cared about shifting the blame, about making sure they weren’t the villain in this story.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

Because in that moment, I realized—no one was going to save me.

I had to save myself.

So I got up. And I walked home.