Home is where the heart is

By Gomathi Sridevi Radhakrishnan

(Two friends walking back home)

I always wished I could be like her. Everything about her seemed perfect. She effortlessly rocked every hair color she tried, while I stuck to my natural black. Her body was an inverted triangle, while mine resembled a rectangle. Her full, pouty lips were far more flattering than my straight ones. I admired her mesmerizing amber-green eyes that captivated everyone at school, while I wore large glasses that obscured my face. She donned crop tops, whereas I hid my belly under baggy sweatshirts. I envied her infectious laugh that brought joy to those around her.

She excelled in everything, while I struggled to achieve average grades. She was the teacher's favorite and easily made friends, while my introverted nature kept me from doing the same. I preferred silence, while she thrived in the loud atmosphere of clubs. I often felt the urge to protect her from the admiring gazes of men in bars, but I would only watch from a distance, nursing my drink as the bartender shot me strange looks.

I restrained myself from following her home each day, not wanting to be labeled a "stalker." Yet deep down, I longed to be like her. So, I followed my heart and enrolled in the dance class where she practiced. I joined her pottery class as well, spending countless hours admiring her grace and confidence.

I invested more money in extracurricular activities than ever before. On the second day of ballet class, I sprained my ankle, but no one paid attention except for her. I vividly remember how her eyes widened with concern when she heard my groan of pain. She rushed over to touch my injured ankle, her soothing voice wrapping around me like a lullaby. It amazed me how someone could possess such a sweet voice.

I never imagined that the popular girl would talk to me—let alone befriend me. I wished to capture the astonished expressions of those around us as they witnessed the nerd and the star becoming friends. Despite our bond, my introverted nature meant that I rarely initiated conversations. Yet there she was, waiting for me in the corridor after every class. We would walk together to our favorite café for hot chocolate; I never had the courage to admit my distaste for it.

My hesitation about walking her home faded away as we explored the city together after class. Our café visits turned into dinners at restaurants, and instead of hiding in corners at clubs, I danced with her on the floor. With her guidance, I learned to dance and grew less embarrassed in front of others. She always drew attention on the dance floor—her laughter echoing through the club, her pink-dyed hair swaying with the music, and her legs moving gracefully despite the sweat that clung to her.

We became inseparable during high school—sharing lunches and discussing everything under the sun. Some tried to steal her away from me, but she always returned home to me. With her support, my academic performance improved significantly; we often studied late into the night at my house, filled with laughter and music. My parents adored having her over and would always prepare snacks for us; she loved dining at my home and relished every bite of my cooking—though I'd never admitted it was mine.

Time flew by quickly; we graduated high school only for her to vanish like thin air afterward. I assumed she had gone on vacation and would return soon, but my hopes were dashed when days turned into weeks without any word from her. I enrolled in the college we had planned to attend together but was disheartened to find myself alone in a classroom without her presence. The spark she brought into my life faded away as if it had never existed.

Yet the confidence she instilled in me helped me make new friends as I focused on my studies and enjoyed weekends out with classmates. Still, there I sat in our old café one day, sipping hot chocolate while staring at the door, hoping against hope that she would walk through it again.

I never knew where she lived or much about her family; she was a chatterbox about everything except herself. In hindsight, it was a mistake not to pry further into her life during those years together. My college years passed swiftly until I landed a good job.

She often told me how much she appreciated my listening skills—something I'd grown accustomed to since speaking wasn't my strong suit. Her words resonated with me; they influenced my decision to become a psychologist so that I could help others find happiness too.

But nothing prepared me for seeing her again under such dire circumstances—sitting across from me in prison during a case study visit for therapy sessions with inmates suffering from mental disorders.

As I approached her table, dread filled my body; how could this be happening? The bars separating us felt like an insurmountable barrier between our past friendship and this grim reality.

Taking a seat opposite her was difficult; she looked so different now—her once-vibrant face now dull and devoid of its former glow. Those captivating amber-green eyes seemed lifeless now; they held no warmth or emotion anymore. Her once luscious lips were chapped and cracked; bruises marred what used to be flawless skin.

I struggled to focus on taking notes as tears blurred my vision; it took several deep breaths before I could regain composure enough to speak.

"Long time no see," she said suddenly with a smile that revealed half-broken teeth—a sight both heartwarming and heartbreaking all at once.

"You remember me?" My voice trembled slightly as disbelief washed over me.

"How could I forget you?" Her honeyed voice sounded strained now—a far cry from what it used to be. "W-Why? What happened?" My heart raced as confusion overwhelmed me. She laughed loudly then—a sound so joyous yet so out of place here—and began speaking again without waiting for my response.

"I was popular in high school," she said casually as if discussing the weather. "Everyone admired me; boys went crazy over me while girls envied me."

"But let me tell you a secret," she leaned closer as if sharing something intimate just between us.

"I never liked it," she continued earnestly.

"Being popular felt like a burden rather than something to be proud of." As she spoke about feeling trapped by expectations and pressures throughout high school—about how much she envied my quiet life—I felt stunned into silence.

"I wished for your life," she confessed softly.

"M-My life? I-I don't understand. I am no one."

"Exactly. You are no one but yourself,"she confessed softly before revealing more about herself than ever before: how her parents' divorce left scars deeper than anyone knew and how loneliness drove her down dark paths until everything spiraled out of control.

The weight of those words hung heavy between us as realization dawned upon me—she had longed for what seemed ordinary yet precious: love from family and true friendship without judgment or envy.

Before long though—the guards entered signaling that our time was up—and just like that our moment vanished into thin air once more.

As they cuffed her hands together—a sight that shattered any remaining hope within me—I felt an ache deep inside knowing that this wasn’t how things were supposed to turn out between us.

"Goodbye," she said over her shoulder before disappearing behind closed doors leaving only silence in place of laughter where joy once thrived.

In that moment—I understood something profound: trying so hard to emulate someone else’s life often blinds us from appreciating our own journey—even amidst struggles we may face along the way.

With newfound clarity—I pulled out my phone when it rang—smiling at seeing Mom’s name flash across the screen reminding me there is still love waiting back home for me despite everything else happening around us right now.

"I'm coming home, mom," I replied softly feeling lighter somehow despite all that had transpired today—a reminder perhaps—that sometimes acceptance is found not through imitation but embracing who we truly are instead.