There was something about this moment. The warm meal, the soft hum of the TV, the quiet presence of her mother beside her. No grand conversations. No unnecessary words. Just being.
When she finished, she set the plate aside and stretched. Then, on impulse, she leaned over and kissed her mother's cheek—a silent thank you.
Her mother, caught off guard, turned to her with a small, surprised smile. "Get some rest, dear."
Bani nodded. As she left the living room, the glow of the television flickered behind her, the sounds of exaggerated drama following her down the hallway.
Lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling, her mind oddly quiet for the first time in what felt like forever.
These small moments—these simple, ordinary, fleeting moments—mattered more than anything.
And maybe, just maybe, they were the things worth holding onto the most.
For years, her parents and brothers had talked about replacing the bamboo chairs with a "proper" sofa. A plush, modern set that would make the living room look elegant, sophisticated—like the kind of home where guests would walk in and say, Ah, now this is nice.
But every time they came close to buying one, life had other plans. Bills, repairs, unexpected medical expenses—it was as if the universe itself conspired against their dream of soft cushions and armrests. The sofa idea would rise, full of hope, only to be brutally crushed under financial realities.
Not that it ever really bothered Bani. She had grown up with these chairs, their smooth curves molded to fit her body perfectly. And that gentle sway? No fancy, over priced sofa could match it. To her, these chairs weren't just furniture; they were a piece of her childhood, a relic of stability in a life that seemed determined to change at every turn.
As she leaned back, the familiar creak of the bamboo whispered in her ears. She closed her eyes and exhaled. Her marriage had ended. Her dreams had shifted. Her future was an unfinished sentence. But here she was—still in the same chair.
Maybe some things weren't meant to be replaced. Maybe, some things only became more precious with time.
Bani sat next to her mother on the couch, her attention flickering between the television and her phone. The drama serial played on, packed with intense glares, slow zoom-ins, and an emotional background score that seemed far too dramatic for a conversation about who stole the neighbor's pickles, is that super tasty
Her mother, however, was fully invested. Eyes locked on the screen, she gasped at the betrayal unfolding before her. Bani, on the other hand, was only half-watching, scrolling absently through her phone.
Her mother noticed. She always did.
"You don't really watch these kinds of shows, do you?" she asked, side-eyeing Bani with a knowing smirk.
Bani shrugged. "Sometimes," she said, attempting to look interested but failing miserably.
Bani woke up feeling well-rested—something that had become rare in recent years. The weight of stress had always pressed her down, but today, her body felt lighter, as if the invisible chains that had bound her for so long had loosened overnight.