Day Twenty-Second

You know, they say it takes twenty-one days to break a habit?

I didn’t believe it either. But I held onto that number. Like a stupid superstition. Like something I could measure my grief against. Day one, I wasn’t doing anything heroic. I just woke up... and you weren’t here. That’s it. No message. No voice note. No half-slept smile asking for two more minutes. I brushed my teeth without looking at the mirror. Made tea but didn’t drink it. Just held the cup like it might answer something I hadn’t asked yet.

I told myself, twenty-one days. That’s all it’ll take. To stop checking my phone. To stop thinking of you every time I opened the fridge or closed the cupboard or touched that blue bedsheet you insisted on. But the flat, this place, was echoing with you. Every corner had your voice stuck to it. You're humming while slicing onions. That habit of closing drawers with your foot. The way you used to write grocery lists but never follow them.

By day five, I was doing things just to fill the hours. Taking long showers that lasted through entire playlists. Walking without music just to hear the world prove it was still moving. But everything reminded me of you. Everything. The whistle of the pressure cooker. The smell of rain on the stairs. Even silence. Especially silence. It wasn’t empty. It was full of things left unsaid. And somehow, that felt heavier than anything we ever did say.

There’s this lane behind the bookstore, remember? We had once walked there in the rain. You told me, “Bheeg jaane do. Yaad rahega.” And I had laughed. Not because it was funny. Because I didn’t know what else to do with how much I was feeling. I didn’t know how much I’d remember. Turns out, everything. The sound of your wet slippers. The way your hand reached for mine was like it belonged there. The way it belonged.

By day ten, I was folding and refolding clothes like some kind of ritual. Like if I rearranged the drawers enough times, I’d find a version of myself that hadn’t met you. But even the bloody cupboard smelled like you. Your scarf? Still there. That clip with the missing teeth? Still behind the mirror. I didn’t throw anything out. I just moved them. Somewhere less visible. Somewhere, not less painful.

People say time heals. But they don’t tell you time also mocks. It repeats things just when you think you’re done with them. Like your voice showing up in a dream. Like your name popping up in a playlist I swear I didn’t make. Like your favourite coffee stall changing hands but still keeping the smell.

By day seventeen, I thought I was doing better. I walked past someone wearing your perfume. And I froze. My body turned before my mind could stop it. Just to check. It wasn’t you. But for a second... I wanted it to be. I hated that I wanted it to be.

And then came day twenty-one. I didn’t even realise it at first. It was just a normal morning. Tea boiling. Sunlight cuts across the bed. I looked at myself and didn’t flinch. And that’s when it hit me. I had survived twenty-one days. Without messaging you. Without calling. Without collapsing. I had gone to work, folded clothes, stood in grocery lines, crossed roads, attended calls, ignored festivals... without you.

And I thought maybe, just maybe, that line was true. Maybe it does take twenty-one days to forget a habit. But then, you were never a habit. You were the whole season.

So I’ll ask this once. I won’t repeat it.

Did it take you twenty-one days, too?

Because for me...

It’s been twenty-two.

And I’m still counting.