October!

I always had this habit as a kid: when my mom said guests were coming.

"Guests" that, according to the 14-year-old girl I was, were "bad" and would judge me by how I kept my room.

I'd perform my 5-minute escape plan. Tidying meant hiding. 

Pencils, paper, handkerchiefs went under the bed. Sharpener dust was tucked into the window grill. My school bag vanished beneath the cupboard. Clothes were stuffed into it so tightly that if anyone opened the shelf door, the whole mess would avalanche out.

It was a panic move, a quick fix though! 

I’ve carried that feeling with me. Not the actual mess, but the memory. I was never satisfied with how I arranged things. I’d call my mom to fix my bedsheet, because her final touch somehow made the whole scene look perfect.

Once, when I asked her about it, she showed me all the actual trash I’d hidden while “cleaning.” It made me wonder: When I cleaned the room, was it “ever” really clean?

I was terrified of being judged for my messy, untidy self, so I always hid my flaws. But living that way—always providing subtitles for people to understand me—was exhausting. I was never satisfied.

I still remember that one fine day, I just stopped doing it again and again. When the "bad" guests came, I still did the 5-minute clean. But when my school best friend came to stay, I kept my room exactly as it was. I had a feeling she would love my mess. And she did, more than I expected. She said it felt comfortable, because the room was just like me: messy but real.

That whole incident now just laughs at me. It shows how life has a weird way of making you finally understand things.

October made me open the diary and pull out this old "5-minute escape plan" story, where my best friend unknowingly taught me that I don't need subtitles to make people understand me. Life will be kind when it's ready.

I was always afraid of being alone—walking into a class, sharing an opinion, or eating by myself in public. But the months always find ways to teach you. Some ways are cruel, some are kind.

October gave me mixed feelings, but in the end, it accepted me. It taught me to accept my own mess, to eat alone in public without fear, and to step back and breathe when you feel like doing it. Because healing has no fixed timetable. Distance isn't arrogance; sometimes it’s the only way to respect yourself and those around you.

October taught me to hug myself again, and to believe in hope and love.

It showed me different shades: the colors of the soil, the leaves, the sky, and the people. And the shades of "me" I’d kept hidden, just like the mess I hid from my mom's guests.

I have learnt that sometimes, pain is too heavy for poems. It’s too much for words to carry, so you need to rest and wait for a while, and be kind towards everything, cz there will be a time when it might rain, even when it is not supposed to; you don’t need a deep meaning for every single thing that happens. Some things just happen without any reason. No one’s to blame, nothing to resolve, except “realizing” that sometimes you have to be the “white crayon” - just there to complete the colour box and wait for your turn. For that one dark colour paper. 

This month helped me to be fearless. It showed me that love exists, and it comes back to you in different forms - a kind friend who just decided to enjoy the weather with you; a friend that hugged you just because she was having a bad day in University; a man on a train who complimented your book choices; a teacher who told you that she liked how you wrote your answers; a group of puppies who came running to you as soon as they heard your voice; a crow that ate a biscuit from your hand, trusting you; a stranger who decided to give you a seat just because he saw you “sad” at the train door; and those long-distance friends who unknowingly taught you that the white crayon is useful in the colour box by being that dark colour paper. 

You see, life has its own ways, of painting pictures, and making you learn things. 

This month snapped at me in the first few days, but then it hugged me back too. It helped me open that version of myself.

Eventually helping me to be "me" again.