fictionalperk

[fictionalperk]

The Weight of Overtime.

Work is a strange classroom. Every day, it gathers people of every age and background under one roof; some as helpers, some as loaders, some as officers, some as assistants. And when you really look around, you begin to notice that time, money, and food don’t hold the same meaning for everyone.

For the younger ones, money often slips through our fingers without thought. Three cups of coffee in a day, snacks we don’t finish, food we sometimes waste. The meal provided at work often lies untouched, while we go out searching for something “better.” To us, comfort feels like a right, not a privilege.

But then there are the loaders. Men who have already given decades of their strength, yet still bend their backs to lift what we sometimes avoid. They are happy when overtime comes, grateful for the chance to earn a little extra. To them, every hour of work isn’t just about time, it’s survival. They eat the simple food provided, share it among themselves, and never complain. Sometimes a single cup of tea is enough to keep them going.

And it makes me sad.

Sad that while we waste, they save.

Sad that while we treat money as air, they hold every rupee like it carries the weight of their family’s tomorrow.

Sad that the same overtime that feels like punishment to us, brings relief to them; not because they love the work, but because they cannot afford not to.

At work, the differences show themselves in silence. In the untouched plates, in the shared tea, in the tired yet unbroken strength of those who keep going.

And it reminds me of one truth: most of us don’t really know the value of things; not yet.

[fictionalperk]

A Mask we put on to Survive the Day.

Before the sun come in the sky, we put on our masks;

not to hide, but to get through.

We’re like players on the same stage,

saying our lines, not because we believe them,

but because the show must go on.

Friends? Maybe one or two in the crowd,

but most faces are just shadows passing by.

We laugh when coffee spills,

one of those small moments of realness in a sea of pretend.

Underneath, there’s a quiet game,

a race no one talks about; but everyone feels.

This place isn’t just work.

It’s a kind of family we didn’t choose,

where we spend more time than anywhere else.

We share stolen glances across counters,

nods that say more than words ever could.

We see each other in the tired eyes,

in the forced smiles,

in the silent battles fought every day.

Some days, the mask feels heavy,

like carrying a thousand tiny weights.

But still, we wear it;

because out here, that’s how we survive.

Behind the laughter and the routine,

there’s a whole world of stories;

of hopes held close, of struggles kept secret.

And when the day finally ends,

and the mask comes off,

we’re just people trying to hold it together;

waiting for tomorrow to do it all again.

[fictionalperk]

The Woman I Met at the Airport; Tulasha.

It has been two days, but I still can't stop thinking about her.

Working at Buddha Air as a Customer Service Representative at the airport, I’ve come across hundreds of people in just these past two weeks. People in a rush, people in confusion, people smiling, panicking, asking, forgetting, waiting, worrying. My role is to be their calm, their clarity in chaos. But every now and then, someone walks into your life and leaves behind a feeling you can’t shake off. For me, that someone was a woman named Tulasha.

She called me from behind. I was standing near the counter when I heard a soft voice asking if there was anyone who could help with her luggage. I turned around to see a young woman, probably 23 or 24 years old, carrying a toddler in a front baby carrier. The little one looked around a year or two. She seemed exhausted but composed, clearly struggling to manage both the baby and her luggage. Without thinking, I called one of our brothers to assist her.

She thanked me gently and went on her way, but a few minutes later, she returned. There was an issue. She had accidentally packed her laptop into her checked-in luggage, and according to policy, breakables like electronics aren’t allowed there. She needed to move it into her hand carry. But with a baby constantly tugging and crying, it was nearly impossible to do it alone.

Then she asked me something that caught me off guard.

“Can you hold him for a while?”

And so, I did.

The baby wasn’t easy. He cried; loudly and squirmed in my arms. He was heavier than I expected, and my arms began to ache. But I walked around with him, gently bouncing and humming, trying anything to soothe him. After a little while, he calmed down. Just stopped and looked around. And in that moment of quiet, I felt something shift inside me.

Meanwhile, Tulasha was repacking her stuffs. She was young, yes, but carried a strength that felt far older. As we moved toward the insurance counter to process the baby’s travel insurance, I was still holding her child. She looked at me and smiled, handing me a small chocolate. “Thank you,” she said. To her, it meant something. That moment, her gratitude, it felt too tender, too sincere to brush off.

While she was taking out money from her purse, something caught my eye; not intentionally, but because her wrist moved into my line of sight. That’s when I saw it: cuts. Thin, fresh, and unmistakably self-inflicted.

I froze inside.

Here was this young woman, a mother, a traveler, a fighter; who was also carrying silent pain on her skin. The contrast between the soft way she handled her child and the rawness of those wounds hit me hard. And I couldn’t ask. I didn’t know how. It wasn’t my place, and yet it felt like my heart ached for her.

Once everything was sorted, I helped her carry her baby and hand carry to the departure bus area. She was sweating, a little breathless from the rush. As she turned to leave, she asked me, “What’s your name?”

I told her. And then asked hers.

"Tulasha," she replied.

She gave me a side hug. I hugged her back, and wished I could’ve held her longer. Not because she needed it, maybe, but because I did. That hug carried all the questions I couldn’t ask. All the things I wished I could tell her. That she was brave. That she mattered. That her scars didn’t define her, but her strength did.

And then, she was gone.

Tulasha gave me a chocolate. But she also gave me something more: a moment of real, raw humanity that I can't stop replaying in my mind.

I don’t know where she is now, or what battles she’s still fighting. But I hope, deeply; that she finds moments of light in her days. That she knows someone out there remembers her, not as a passenger, but as a person. A woman who carried not just a baby, but a mountain of invisible weight and still smiled.

I’ll never forget her.

And I hope, in some small way, she won’t forget me either.

[fictionalperk]

What if - for once, she was the poem and not the poet?

She’s always been the one who notices first. Who sees beauty in silence, who loves without being asked to.

She’s built homes in people, even when she knew she couldn’t stay. Written about hearts, that never thought to read hers.

It’s not sadness she carries; just a quiet question.

Can she, for once, be the one someone looks for in a crowd? The reason a song is played twice? The story someone can’t stop telling?

She doesn’t want to be the writer tonight. Not the hands reaching out. Not the one with open arms and tired eyes.

She wants to be the thought that stays. The one remembered. The one felt. The one who doesn't have to try so hard to be understood.

Let her be the wish, not the wisher. The light, not the hunger.

Let her be the moon; enough just as she is, the ache someone would never let go of.

[fictionalperk]

i found the password, but what i really found was her

i recovered an instagram account i opened in 2015. i had nothing, no email, no password, no backups. just a blank screen and a distant feeling that there was something waiting there.

instagram showed that my email started with A and ended with H. and somehow, instinctively, my first name and his name. in my email. and guess what the password was? his name again. i typed it, almost jokingly not expecting it to work. but it did. haha. when i finally got in, he wasn’t even there. not in the dms, not on the following list. he didn’t follow me, i didn’t follow him.

what i did find, though, was something i never expected to hit me this hard my girlfriends, our messy and dramatic life.

the late-night texts. the jokes that only made sense in our group chat. and then?  the blocks. so many blocks.

blocking someone wasn’t just a feature back then, it was a scream. a silent “i’m hurt and i don’t know how to say it out loud.” we blocked each other not to disappear, but to be noticed. and when the anger settled, we always came back. we always found our way to say, “i missed you.”

we used to tell each other how much it hurt. when we stopped talking. we admitted it, raw and direct. "i felt left out when you guys went without me" "i was hurt when you ignored me in school today" we were too honest sometimes, but at least we felt everything.

and isn’t it wild? i cared more about being validated by my friends than i ever did by boys, i just wanted them to think i was cool. pretty. worth holding onto. the kind of person you'd screenshot a memory of.

but now? we ghost people, we say “life got busy.” we forget to reply.

but i remember now. i remember all of it. and that has to count for something.

this is for the girls i laughed with, cried over, blocked, unblocked, and never stopped loving.

this is for the girl i was 10 years ago, boyyyy,.. she felt everything, and she was never as small as she thought.

— me, 2025 (ten years later, still remembering it all)

[fictionalperk]

Feelings Are Just Visitors.

finding something to hold on to. something that makes sense, even for a second. longing out loud about being young; drinks in hand, nostalgia sharp in the throat.

finding new problems to fix. even if they’re not ours. especially if they can break us. pain feels familiar.

holding on to people who left. versions of ourselves that don’t exist anymore. loves that faded. friends who still see through the layers.

feelings walk in, sit down. make noise, and leave. cause' feelings are just visitors.

we laugh like nothing changed. we drink like it means something. we hold that beer-bottle like it’s a lifeline. like we’re afraid to drop.

holding on to places that disappeared. to homes that can’t hold us, so we hold what’s left. memories, noise or whatever that still answers when we call.

they’re not here to stay. none of it is. they come, they stay, they leave.

cause' feelings are just visitors.

[fictionalperk]

In Between: Expectation Versus Reality

There are phases in life where nothing fits. Plans fall through. Timing slips. People drift. And you sit there, holding everything you tried to build, wondering if you were too hopeful? or just too early!

You watch things you cared about fall apart slowly; not with drama, but with distance. People you once felt bounded to seem further, even when they’re still in reach. It’s not that they did anything wrong. It’s not even jealousy. It’s the ache of presence fading of someone you once felt aligned with now sharing their light somewhere else. And you don’t want more than what exists. But still, something quietly stings when you feel like you’re being replaced, even in the smallest ways.

You carry guilt for feeling this way. For needing people, for caring deeply, for noticing the shift before anyone says a word. And there’s a weight in pretending it doesn’t bother you; in smiling when your heart feels loud and restless inside your chest. It’s hard to admit when you don’t feel chosen, even though no one promised they would.

Home isn’t helping either. The place you should feel safe in only makes you question yourself more. Everyone has opinions. Assumptions. Warnings. And part of you wonders if they’re right, not because you believe them, but because doubt has already made itself comfortable.

Still, deep down, you know this is just one of those chapters; the kind you read through slowly, waiting for the page to turn. You know this feeling won’t last. That clarity will come. That alignment will return. That this heaviness, however sharp, is temporary.

You’re not broken. You’re in between. And that, too, I hope is part of the story.

[fictionalperk]

I Just Want To Grow.

Everyone’s running with papers in hand, plans on their head, feet pointed somewhere.

Me? I just carry silence, and let the chaos in my head fill my dreams.

They ask for my vision now, What if I forgot what wanting things feels like?

I nod, smile, make it polite. But inside,

a small voice claws up my throat: “I just want to grow.”

I'm tired of rooms that doesn’t feel like home, walls that echo, but never answer. Of hearing my name, but feeling invisible. Of talking, and still feeling unheard.

I want hours that mean something. I want silence that feels safe.

Is that too much?

Don’t tell me to run. Don’t hand me a timeline. I just need a space, To fall apart, To bloom again.

[fictionalperk]

Life is a soup and I'm a chopstick.

Nothing in my life is going right. I hate people with their perfect little goals, acting like they have it all figured out. I hate them all. And I don’t even know where to put all this hate boiling inside me. Maybe it’ll fade when my period ends, but for now it’s fucking hell. Being a woman feels like a curse. Five days of pain and mood swings, and then the rest of the month just trying to clean up the mess from choices I made when I wasn’t even in control. It’s exhausting. It’s unfair. It fucking sucks. I’m done with Instagram. Done with the fake peace, the filters, the bullshit smiles. Done pretending I’m okay. And men? Fuck it. I’ll stay single forever. I wanted to be an independent woman. But you know what? Even that feels like a heavy burden now. I’m tired of holding everything together while falling apart inside.

Someone turned their quiet garden into a noisy school. And my best friend, the one person I want to talk to is here, but I can’t just drop every storm in his lap. He’s fighting his own battles, carrying his own weight.He does what he can, and for that, I am truly grateful. But God, sometimes I just want someone to say, “I’ve got you,” without me having to ask for it. And then came that damn rejection. Probably because the person judging me didn’t give a fuck. He just looked at me like I was a fraud, like I didn’t belong. Like I was already guilty. I’m so fucking angry. I hate that I let it break me like this. I hate that I feel like a loser because of one moment, one cold decision. Life’s a fucking soup, and I’m just a useless chopstick, slipping, struggling, not made for this mess.

[fictionalperk]

Before We Begin Again;

A person walks into your life quietly, at the wrong time, or maybe the most perfect one; and everything shifts, without making any noise. You find yourself sharing silences that feels full, laughter that feels healing, and moments that leave no trace except the feeling that they matter.

We didn’t come together for love in the traditional sense. We found each other to grow, to ground, to quietly heal in each other’s presence. Not as partners in romance, but as something steadier.

You show up; not with grand plans, but with presence. You listen to the things I don’t always know how to say out loud. You laugh at the chaos when I forget to take a breath. You tell me the truth when I need it, and hold space when I need silence.

You never try to fix me. You just stand beside me; and somehow, I start putting the pieces back together myself. We don’t talk about “forever,” but we talk about the future; projects, cities, dreams.

We make space in our stories for each other, not out of obligation, but because it feels right.

You’re healing me in ways you may never fully realize, just by being who you are. And you say I’m doing the same for you. Just two people learning to grow beside each other, through late-night conversations, shared silence, and mutual respect.

Maybe it’ll never make sense from the outside. But it makes sense here. So, this is not a love story. This is a companion-ship. A healing. A mirror. A moment of clarity in a chaotic world. Sometimes, we just need someone to stand beside us while we become ourselves.

And I’m grateful it’s you.

with love,

[fictionalperk]

“change”

Change is a fucking nightmare. One minute, everything’s slow as hell, and you’re stuck in the same place, waiting for something to happen. You try, but it feels like nothing moves. Then out of nowhere, everything speeds up, and it’s too much. The future you’ve been avoiding is suddenly here, and you’re expected to act. It’s fast, overwhelming, and you can’t keep up.

And then there's this. The pull between moving forward and leaving people behind. The connection you’ve built with someone, and the thought of walking away from that, even when things are unclear. You don’t know how to feel anymore. You care, but how do you balance that with everything else that’s happening in your life? The worst part? You’re stuck between wanting to break free and being too scared to leave behind the comfort you’ve always known. You want change but can’t fucking handle it. You’re angry as hell. You’re sleeping all day just to avoid the madness. At night, your thoughts race, and you dream the fear, can’t sleep.

Why is everything happening so fast? Why can’t it just slow down? You feel like you’re losing control. But my friend, “change” doesn’t care. It’s happening, whether you’re ready or not.

[fictionalperk]

Too Many "Almost" With Too Many People.

It starts before it even starts. People naming the end before anything begins. A connection forms, and within days or weeks, the disclaimers arrive; “This won’t last.” “Different goals.” “Different timelines.” “Just a phase.”

No lies. No delusions. Everything on the table from day one. And still, the talking continues. Messages pile up. Days blend into nights on calls. Routines forms; not because there’s commitment, but because it’s easy. Easy to share space when both sides understand there’s an exit door open the entire time. There’s no conflict. Just caution. No heartbreak, just well-managed expectations. This isn’t detachment; this is pre-detachment. A built-in expiration date stamped on nearly every human connection.

Somewhere along the way, emotional awareness turned into emotional restraint. Not out of cruelty, just habit. Every soft feeling gets filtered through logic. Every bond stays half-formed. Close, but not entangled. Intimate, but never vulnerable enough to fall.

Romance exists. So does care. But belief? Belief in something lasting, has taken a hit. Better to be “realistic” than “naive.” Better to enjoy something temporarily than risk reaching for something that might dissolve.

So, it repeats. The “almost”. The “whateverships”. The “we talk all the time but we’re not really anything.” Connections that mean something, just not enough to fight for. Not enough to change course.

Familiar patterns now. The beginning always feels fresh. Sharp, clear attention. Subtle fascination. But underneath that, a quiet understanding: this will likely end. That thought stays in the background, unspoken but present, shaping every interaction.

It’s not coldness. It’s conditioning.

In a culture where everything shifts fast, the jobs, cities, identities, priorities, it actually makes sense. Permanence feels unrealistic. So, people build moments instead of futures. Safe, temporary places to feel seen, until it’s time to move on.

And there’s no villain in this. Just design. A system that rewards detachment. A lifestyle that trains the mind to keep expectations low. A generation that learned not to hope too loudly.

The result? A long list of people who once meant something. Not enough to stay. Just enough to remember.

Too many almost. Not enough real.

[fictionalperk]

Chaitra & Baishak

Like Chaitra reaching for Baishak’s door,

we found us, then asked for no more.

When you know, you know; without a name,

but knowing doesn't always mean we stay.

You are a moment I can’t hold tight,

a voice that fades into a softer light.

Two souls, right rhythm, wrong rhyme,

walking together on borrowed time.

We didn’t lose, we didn’t win,

we just paused somewhere in between.

Still, in some quiet corner of me,

we will live; like unfinished poetry.

[fictionalperk]

She Who Wants It All.

She bites her tongue mid-sentence, not because she’s unsure but because the world never asked what she really meant to say.

In her chest, a voice made of fire and petals, yearning to spill from lips that were once told to behave.

She dreams in silk and thunder, of kisses that don’t fear depth, of hands that read her like poetry, not skim her like a page.

Desire hums through her fingertips, not just the touch of skin on skin, but the ache to be seen in every secret she’s buried beneath “I’m fine.”

She doesn't want half-loves or conversations that trail off. She wants soul, she wants pull. She wants a storm that makes her still.

And even when her throat wavers, when her words tangle like vines, she keeps speaking. Keeps choosing herself, keeps loving like it’s the only magic that’s real.

She walks forward a mirror of softness wrapped in steel, magnetic not because she tries, but because she feels.

And oh, she’ll be touched, not just by hands, but by fate, by a future that listens, by a love that doesn't flinch.

She’s not asking. She’s becoming.

[fictionalperk]

Can I stay?

I walk, I stop, I lose my way

Chasing dreams that slip away.

My feet are tied, tied yet free

But can they run with you when you say?

My hands write, they work, they play

Lost in the chaos, day by day.

They long to rest, yet never stay,

But can they hold your words when you say?

My mind drifts like cloud above,

Full of worries, full of love.

It thinks, it plans, it drifts above

But can it pause to hold your love?

I move with time, with life, with you

Through changing weathers, through all I do.

Can I pause and rest a while?

But can I stay and make you smile?

[fictionalperk]

Push and Pull.

You push me away with words you don’t mean,

Then pull me back with whispers unseen.

A storm and a shelter, all in one breath,

A step toward me, then a step back in regret.

I check my phone, waiting, unsure,

Tracing the silence, aching for more.

You say, "Let’s stop," then miss me the same,

Like losing me is some kind of game.

I don’t need promises, carved in stone,

Just tell me if I stand, here alone.

If fear holds you, I’ll understand,

But don’t hold my heart with unsteady hands.

Still, I stay, caught in between,

A bond unspoken, yet deeply seen.

Not love, not nothing; something untold,

A story still writing, but losing its hold.

[fictionalperk]

Trap.

Independence? wasn’t it grand?

A life of my own, no need for a hand.

Yet here I stand, exhausted and torn,

Chasing a freedom that feels like a thorn.

This is a game, a cruel little trick,

There for the laughs, but gone when it’s thick.

He listens to jokes, to thoughts left unsaid,

But never to silence, to fears in my head.

Maybe I’ll rise when the anger is gone,

Find my own path, keep moving on.

But tonight, I’ll sit with the fire inside,

Let it burn, let it scream no need to hide.