A Small Book for Tired Hearts

Call me when you’re free. I had a fight at home.

Another from a group chat.

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A Small Book for Tired Hearts

Saturday plan? Everyone say yes fast.

I stared at the screen.

My first thought was not, What do I want?

It was, What will disappoint the least number of people?

So I replied.

Sure, send it.

I’ll call you later.

Haha yes, let’s see.

Three small messages. Three small promises. Three small

pieces of myself given away before I had even left the bed.

I placed my phone beside me and pressed my palms over

my eyes.

For a moment, I wanted to disappear into the blanket. Not

forever. Just for one morning. Just long enough to not be

needed.

But the day was waiting.

So I got up.

I brushed my teeth while looking at the sink, not the

mirror. I washed my face with cold water and hoped it

would make me look more awake. I tied my hair twice

because the first time it looked too messy, and I did not

want anyone to say, “You look tired.”

I already knew I looked tired.

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A Small Book for Tired Hearts

I chose a blue kurti from the chair, the one that did not

need ironing if I wore my bag on the right side. I searched

for my earrings, found only one, gave up, then found the

other near my notebook.

Small things like that almost made me cry sometimes.

Not because they mattered.

Because everything felt like one more thing.

Before leaving, I looked in the mirror.

My face looked normal.

That always surprised me.

How could a person feel so crowded inside and still look

normal outside?

I practiced a smile.

Not a happy smile. Not a fake big one. Just the kind people

accept without asking questions.

The kind that says, I am easy today. You do not have to

worry about me.

I had learned that smile slowly.

At first, I used it only when I did not want to explain

myself. Then I used it when I did not want to make people

uncomfortable. Then one day, it became the face everyone

knew.

Outside, the morning had already started without me.

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A Small Book for Tired Hearts

A vegetable seller was arranging tomatoes in a basket. A

schoolboy was dragging one shoe because the lace was

open. Someone’s pressure cooker whistled from a nearby

flat. A dog slept under a scooter like the world had made a

private place for him.

I wanted a private place too.

Somewhere I did not have to answer. Somewhere no one

could reach me with a small favor.

At work, I became the version of myself everyone

expected.

I smiled at the guard.

I said good morning to people who did not look up

properly.

I opened my laptop.

I replied to emails.

I fixed a small mistake in a file that was not mine.

When Riya came to my desk, her eyes were wide with

stress.

“Maya, please just look once,” she said. “You explain

better than me.”

I wanted to say, “I have my own work.”

Instead, I pulled the chair beside me.

“Show me,” I said.

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A Small Book for Tired Hearts

She sat down and started talking fast. Slides, points,

order, font size. I listened. I helped. I moved things

around. I told her where to pause, what to remove, what

to say.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, standing up.

I smiled.

The word stayed with me after she left.

Lifesaver.

It sounded kind. It should have felt good.

But sometimes being useful made me feel more alone.

People came to me when they were sinking, and I gave

them whatever I had. Calm words. Time. Attention. A

solution. A joke.

Then they floated away.

And I stayed where I was.

By lunch, my head felt full.

Everyone sat together near the window. Someone had

brought lemon rice. Someone complained about their

manager. Someone showed a meme, and everyone

laughed.

I laughed too.

A second late, but no one noticed.

Riya looked at me while eating from her steel tiffin.

“You okay, Maya?”

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A Small Book for Tired Hearts

For a tiny moment, the room seemed to slow down.

My hand stopped over my plate.

I almost said it.

I almost said, “I don’t think so.”

I almost said, “I am tired of being the person everyone

comes to.”

I almost said, “I want someone to notice me before I have

to explain myself.”

But her phone rang before I answered. She looked down,

frowned, and said, “One second.”

The moment closed.

I picked up my spoon.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “Just sleepy.”

She nodded while answering the call.

Just sleepy.

It was the safest answer. People understood sleepiness.

They did not ask too many questions about it. They did not

feel responsible for it.

The day kept moving.

I kept moving with it.

In the afternoon, my cousin sent another message.

You forgot?

I typed:

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A Small Book for Tired Hearts

No, no. I’ll call after work. Sorry.

Sorry.

That word lived in my mouth.

Sorry for replying late. Sorry for needing time. Sorry for

not being available fast enough. Sorry for being quiet.

Sorry for having limits I never clearly said out loud.

On the way home, the sky had turned orange behind the

buildings. The road was crowded. A man at the tea stall

was pouring chai from high above the glass. Two girls

walked ahead of me, sharing earphones and laughing at

something on one screen.

I watched them and felt a strange ache.

Not jealousy exactly.

Just the ache of seeing lightness when your own heart

feels folded.

At a shop window, I caught my reflection.

Bag on one shoulder. Hair loose around my face. Lips

pressed together. Eyes looking older than the rest of me.

Nothing about me looked like someone who needed help.

That was the problem.

I had become too good at looking fine.

When I reached home, I stood outside my door for a few

seconds before unlocking it.

I do that sometimes.

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A Small Book for Tired Hearts

I stand there with the key in my hand, as if the door is not

only a door, but the place where my performance ends.

Inside, the room was quiet.

I put my bag on the chair. It slipped and fell to the floor. A

notebook and a receipt came out. I looked at them for a

second, then left them there.

I sat on the edge of my bed.

My phone buzzed again.

Another message.

I did not open it.

For once, my thumb did not move.

I just sat there, feeling the smile slowly leave my face.

It felt strange, almost painful, like removing something

that had been taped to me all day.

My cheeks softened.

My shoulders dropped.

My eyes burned, but no tears came.

Then, very quietly, a question rose inside me.

Who am I when no one needs me?

I did not have an answer.

That scared me more than I expected.

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A Small Book for Tired Hearts

Because I knew how to be helpful. I knew how to be calm.

I knew how to reply, adjust, understand, forgive, explain,

listen, and stay.

But I did not know how to be tired in front of anyone.

I did not know how to need without feeling guilty.

I looked at my phone again.

The screen lit up with names. People. Needs. Small

emergencies. Plans. Feelings. Expectations.

Then I looked at my hands.

They were empty.

Still, they felt full.

I whispered, “I’m tired.”

The words came out rough, like they had been waiting in

my throat all day.

No one heard them.

But I did.

For the first time that day, I was not trying to look okay.

I was just a girl sitting on her bed, with her bag on the

floor, her phone glowing beside her, and a heart that had

been quiet for too long.

Maybe this was where I had to begin.

Not with becoming stronger.

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A Small Book for Tired Hearts

With admitting that the smile had become too heavy to

wear all the time.

EMOTIONAL QUOTE

“The heaviest smile is the one you wear so no one

asks what it is hiding.”

REFLECTION QUESTION

What part of yourself do you hide so other people

can feel comfortable?