The m̶e̶l̶a̶n̶c̶h̶o̶l̶y̶ nostalgia of celebrations like this.

“Melancholy, the ghost of nostalgia.”

— adunnithewriter.

You’re perched on the floor of your room. You look around, even though it’s just you. You wonder what you hope to find. The happiness of others, displayed as loud fireworks, threatens to break you. To feel better, you tell yourself they might be masking their pain. You think you’d also join them if you could and no one would ever guess you were breaking.

You’re perched on the floor of your room. You remember what a friend once said to you; you’re doing better than you think you are. But you’ve learned from a young age to not take people’s words for it. Your mother warned you about believing the negative words of others, but somehow, you’ve applied it to the positive ones too. Only what you think of yourself matters. And right now, what do you think?

You’re perched on the floor of your room. You wish the new year instantly meant a new life. You wish work wouldn’t resume in a few days. You wish you automatically had everything that would make you… happy. You wish you already had everything that would make you… happy. You wish you were grateful for what you have, but strangely, you aren’t. Last year, you were grateful. This year, you’re not.

You’re perched on the floor of your room and you can feel how close your tears are. Maybe it’s the melancholy of celebrations like this. Days before you turned 18, your excitement was visible. The tradition of turning 18 came with expectations. You expected a lot from everyone, from yourself. But the reality didn’t quite meet those expectations. It wasn’t bad, but it’s just this melancholy that comes with celebrations like that.

You’re perched on the floor of your room and your tears finally fall. You realize you’re hungry, so you order food and wait in the pool of your tears. You know that if anyone asked what was wrong, you’d have nothing to say. You ask yourself, “What’s wrong? What’s the problem?” But you have no answer to give.

You’re perched on the floor of your room when your food arrives. You wipe your tears and, for the first time in the new year, step outside of your room, outside your gate. The fireworks are still lighting up the sky. You walk to the delivery guy. His entire body is laced with sweat, he’s panting hard. It’s 1AM and he’s out here making sure people like you don’t sleep hungry. He hands you your food with a smile, almost laughing and says “Happy new year madam.” You take it and slip back in, but you can’t help standing a while longer. He stays by his bike, smiling and dancing to a song you can’t hear, staring up at the fireworks. Your eyes have no choice but to look up too. You think, maybe it’s the nostalgia that comes with celebrations like this.

Now, you’re perched outside your house, dancing to a song you can’t hear, staring up at the fireworks and your tears have dried.

“Happy new year.” , you mutter to yourself.