Manaswi was six when she learned that “See you soon” doesn’t always come true.
Her elder sister, Riya, would sling her school bag, pinch Manaswi’s cheeks, and say, “Be good. I’ll bring you something.” Manaswi would stand at the doorway of their small flat, waving until Riya disappeared down the stairs.
That evening, the house felt wrong—too quiet, too many footsteps in the corridor. Neighbours gathered. Her mother’s phone kept ringing and ringing. Then her father came in with a face Manaswi had never seen before—blank, cracked, frightened.
There had been a road accident. Riya died before she reached the hospital.
No one sat Manaswi down and explained it clearly. The adults were busy with rituals, relatives, paperwork, and their own shock. When Manaswi asked, “When is Riya coming back?” people said, “Don’t talk like that,” or “God took her,” or they just cried. Manaswi stopped asking.
Instead, she started watching.
Every day after school, she’d stand near the window with her chin on the grill, scanning the lane for a familiar braid and that quick, confident walk. Her body stayed ready like if she watched hard enough, she could undo what happened.
Manaswi grew up, but the “watching” didn’t leave. In college and later in relationships, if someone didn’t reply, her chest tightened. If a partner said, “I need space,” her mind jumped to one thought: They’re gone. She would text again, over-explain, apologise, cling trying to prevent another sudden loss.
In therapy, she finally named it: not “neediness,” but a frightened protector built by grief. She learned to say, “This fear is old. I’m safe right now.” Slowly, she practised waiting, asking directly, and letting people return without chasing them.
Moral 1: When children aren’t given clear truths, they create scary stories to survive.
Moral 2: Anxiety often begins as love trying to prevent loss.
Moral 3: Healing means updating old alarms—so you can trust the present.











