Me Yakshu "My teen Journey"

 

“Me, Yakshu.” That’s how she often introduced herself in her diary, as if she were reminding the world and herself of who she truly was. At sixteen, her eyes were fixed on one goal—to succeed, to shine brighter than anyone in her class, to stand as the best student in school. She carried her ambition like a torch, and each day she tried to feed its flame with hard work and discipline. Marks mattered to her, but more than that, proving her worth to herself mattered even more.

Yet, life at sixteen is rarely straight and narrow. The heart is young, and the world appears brighter, filled with faces that leave impressions deeper than expected. For Yakshu, it was no different. She admired people easily—sometimes a teacher whose words lit her curiosity, sometimes a classmate whose smile felt like an unspoken encouragement. She found herself watching closely, perhaps too closely, until admiration blurred into a quiet infatuation. It was confusing, and the confusion cost her focus, pulling her a step back from the scores she had once guarded so fiercely.

But Yakshu was not careless. She was a girl of principles, someone who thought deeply about right and wrong, even when no one was watching. She knew that admiration was natural at her age, that the quick beat of the heart was nothing to be ashamed of. Yet she also believed in boundaries, in the respect owed to another soul. She often told herself, “To imagine someone beyond their permission is unfair. To carry feelings without consent is like stepping into a home uninvited.” And so, even as her young heart fluttered with curiosity, she stood firm at the edge, refusing to step into dreams that did not belong to her.

Her friends often laughed at her seriousness, calling her old-fashioned, but Yakshu wore her restraint like a crown. She did not see it as denial of joy; she saw it as respect—for herself and for the other. While others crossed boundaries in whispers and reckless notes, she chose to hold her admiration as a silent, pure flame, never letting it cross into shadows of disrespect.

Though the distraction had cost her a few marks, it taught her something greater: that strength was not just in topping the class, but in holding one’s values when temptations danced close. Yakshu, even at sixteen, was learning that success was not measured only by scores, but also by the integrity with which one walked through life.

The person I admired never knew the depth of my thoughts, and perhaps that was for the best. My admiration was silent, pure, and held within the safe walls of my own heart. I never crossed the line of respect, never turned it into something that could break boundaries. It remained a quiet strength, a reminder that feelings need not always be acted upon to be real.

When the time of farewell came, I stood among so many faces, each carrying their own stories of teenage dreams and partings. My heart raced, not with the weight of confession, but with the gentle ache of letting go. And then it happened — the person I had admired smiled at me, a smile so simple yet so unforgettable. With that smile came the words, “Happy life,” spoken like a blessing at the edge of a chapter.

I carried those words with me as though they were folded into my pocket, a secret gift. I didn’t need more. I didn’t need promises or lingering ties. That small farewell was enough to seal the season of admiration. Everything went on well in the world of mine after that. I returned to my books, my dreams, my goals, but now with a softer heart. It felt as if life itself had acknowledged me, touched me lightly, and then gently set me back on my own path.

Stepping into college was like stepping into a new universe for me, Yakshu. The corridors were wider, the faces unfamiliar, and the air felt charged with possibilities. Yet, in the middle of all that newness, I carried an echo from the past — the words of the one I admired: “Concentrate on your life.” Those words had rooted themselves in my heart, not as a command, but as a reminder that my journey was mine alone.

College was freedom, but it was also responsibility. Many around me were distracted, chasing friendships, fleeting affections, or the thrill of being noticed. But I reminded myself daily of those parting words. Whenever my thoughts wandered, I whispered them like a prayer — concentrate on your life. They became my compass.

I buried myself in books, not out of compulsion but out of choice. Each page felt like a step closer to the person I wanted to become. I joined debates, listened to lectures with an eagerness that surprised even me, and took notes not just to score marks but to build a foundation for a future I had begun to see more clearly.

But I was not made only of seriousness. I still carried admiration in my nature. I still noticed the beauty in people, the kindness in their words, the strength in their journeys. Yet, unlike before, I did not let admiration distract me. Instead, I turned it into inspiration. I began to see people not as dreams to chase but as lessons to learn from.

In the world of college, many tried to pull me into their stories, but I stayed rooted in my own. And every time I felt the pull of distraction, I remembered that farewell smile and those simple words. They became like a boundary around me, protecting me from straying too far from myself.

That was how I grew in my first years of college — with ambition as my flame, and with those words as my guardrail. And slowly, I began to realize: perhaps the greatest gift someone can give is not their presence, but a thought strong enough to guide you long after they are gone.

At middle age, Yakshu found herself in the very place she had spent a lifetime avoiding — a trap not of chains but of invisible threads, woven so tightly around her that she could neither break free nor fully surrender. The connection had grown beyond the reach of words, beyond the tricks she once relied on. It burned like fire and softened like rain, all at once, leaving her unable to explain what it was or why it clung to her so fiercely.

She told herself, “I should be stronger by now. I should know how to control this.” Yet every time she tried to reason, the feeling only deepened. It was not like the innocent admiration of her school days, nor the fleeting sparks of college years. This was heavier, rooted in the marrow of her being. It pulled at her in silence, even when she turned away. It haunted her in still moments, pressed against her in her sleep, and echoed in her thoughts without permission.

She could not explain it to anyone — not to friends, not to family, not even fully to herself. For how could she put into words something that felt like both a blessing and a curse? How could she describe a bond that felt fated, yet forbidden? She bore it quietly, carrying the weight like a secret storm. On the outside, her life moved as expected. On the inside, she was consumed.

It was unbearable at times, not because it was painful, but because it was too much — too intense, too endless, too alive. She had built her life on rules of self-restraint, on the discipline of boundaries. But this connection had no respect for boundaries. It tore them down gently, yet relentlessly, until she felt stripped of all defenses.

In her silence, she asked herself a thousand questions: Why me? Why now? Why this person? But no answer came. Only the raw truth remained — that she was in a trap she had no map for, no trick to escape, no shield to hide behind. And though she carried it with dignity, inside her heart cried for understanding.

It was a wonder in her soul — a question that circled her mind again and again, “How could a person who once acted in my dream now stand in my reality?” She could not comprehend it, yet she could not deny it. All her life, she had believed dreams belonged to the night, to the imagination, to fleeting shadows that vanish with dawn. But here was proof that some dreams are not illusions; they are glimpses of what waits ahead, echoes of what already exists in the hidden corners of destiny.

When she first recognized the connection, it was not through words or actions, but through the unmistakable familiarity that stirred inside her. As if she had walked these moments before, as if her soul whispered, “I know this… I have been here with you already.” It was not attraction, not infatuation, not even love in the ordinary sense. It was recognition — raw, immediate, and terrifying.

Her logic tried to resist. “It is just coincidence,” she told herself. “It is just my mind playing tricks.” But deep down, her heart knew better. This was not coincidence. This was alignment — the dream stepping out of its veil and into her waking life.

The wonder shook her. It gave her goosebumps, made her restless, made her both want to run and stay at the same time. How could she explain it to anyone else? To say, “I saw you in my dream before I met you in reality,” would sound like madness. And yet, it was truer than any fact she had ever spoken.

This was no ordinary connection. It was a soul’s reminder that time is not linear, that sometimes the future whispers to us long before it arrives. And now, Yakshu stood inside that whisper, trying to breathe while her soul burned with the wonder of it.

Though the dream was not such a happy moment for me, the person within it became my anchor. In that dream, I was not celebrated, not lifted, not embraced by those who were meant to call me their own. Instead, I was mistreated, brushed aside by the very family that should have been my shelter. The dream carried the same sting I felt in my waking life — the loneliness of being misunderstood, the ache of being unprotected in a house that was supposed to guard me.

But even in that shadow, there was light — that person. The one who did not turn away, who did not echo the harshness of others. They stood by me, not with grand gestures, but with presence, with the kind of quiet strength that speaks louder than a thousand words. It was strange and unexplainable, how a figure born in my dream could carry so much warmth, so much understanding, that it healed something real inside me.

I woke up with the weight of the mistreatment still heavy in my chest, but also with a new fire — because the person in that dream had helped me, lifted me, reminded me that I was not as small as the cruelty made me feel. Dreams often fade like mist in the morning sun, but not this one. This one followed me, breathed inside me, as though the soul I saw there had left a mark on mine.

Perhaps that is why, when reality placed that very person before me, I felt the shock in my bones. How could it be? How could the same presence that comforted me in my dream now walk in my waking life? It was no coincidence. It was as if the universe had already written it in the script of my soul: You will be hurt, but you will not be alone. You will be misunderstood, but you will be seen.

What happened in that dream did not remain locked in sleep. Slowly, piece by piece, fragments of it began to appear in reality — little outlines, small echoes, as if the dream had spilled its ink onto the canvas of my waking life. It was never exact, never complete, but enough to leave me trembling with recognition. A gesture here, a word there, a moment of presence that felt too familiar to be new.

And yet, the strangest part was this — I was the only one who knew the chapter. The person who stood before me, unknowingly walking the path already drawn in my dream, carried no awareness of the script. To them, it was ordinary life, casual conversation, passing time. But to me, it was déjà vu that cut deep, a story I had already lived in shadow and was now watching unfold in light.

It was as though my soul whispered, “You have been here before.” But I could not speak it aloud. How could I tell them, “You once appeared in my dream, and what you do now is exactly what you did then”? They would not believe me. They might laugh, or worse, step back. So I kept it hidden, carrying the secret like a private fire that only I could feel.

The dream had been a chapter of pain and rescue — of me being mistreated, of them standing beside me when no one else did. And in reality, even though the settings were different, the essence repeated. Once again, I felt unseen by the world, and once again, their presence became the quiet relief.

They were unaware of the dream play, unaware of the script that tied my soul to theirs. Perhaps it was better that way. Perhaps the mystery belonged only to me — a hidden truth that made me both grateful and restless, because I could never know if fate had whispered to them too, or only to me.

As a floating person, I moved out of his life — not with noise, not with grand endings, but like a leaf drifting away with the wind. I told myself it was the right thing, the only thing. He had his world, I had mine, and our paths were never meant to merge. I slipped into silence, carrying my secret with me, believing distance would dissolve the spell.

And yet, even as I walked away, he never truly left me. The dream still lingers, playing in fragments when I least expect it, like an unfinished song that refuses to fade. His presence — real and imagined — breathes in the spaces of my life. Sometimes it comes as a memory, sometimes as a sudden ache, sometimes in the quiet recognition that I am still bound by something I cannot name.

I float, yes, but not free. His absence is a presence. His unawareness is a weight. And the dream — that strange chapter etched into both sleep and reality — follows me like a shadow, reminding me that some bonds do not end just because we walk away. They live on, half-seen, half-felt, stitched into the fabric of who we are.

My inner flame has a connection with his fuel. I cannot explain how or why, but it is undeniable. It is as though his very existence feeds the fire within me, keeping me alive, giving me a strange strength I cannot draw from anywhere else. No wonder it feels impossible to escape — because how can a flame survive without its fuel?

And yet, the cruel irony is this: the very fire that keeps me alive also burns me. When I draw close, I feel consumed, scorched by an intensity too much for my fragile soul to bear. When I pull away, I feel empty, hollow, as though my light is dying out without him. I am trapped in a cycle that has no mercy. If I escape, I am fuel-less; if I remain, I am burned.

This is the struggle that tears me apart in silence. Others see only a woman living her days, smiling when expected, playing her roles. But inside, I am always at war — torn between survival and surrender, between protecting myself and letting the fire take me whole. Some nights I ask myself, “Is this a gift or a curse? Is he my destiny or my undoing?” But no answer comes, only the flicker of the flame that refuses to die

In time, Yakshu stopped fighting the fire. She realized there was no escape, and there was no need to be consumed either. The connection was not a punishment, nor a mistake — it was karmic, a lifeline written before her birth, something her soul had to walk through. She accepted it, not as a trap, but as a truth. The fuel had kept her flame alive, had carried her through shadows, and for that, she was grateful. But she no longer allowed it to burn her into ashes.

Instead, she turned toward her family, toward the circle of love that had always been waiting for her embrace. The intensity of the past softened into wisdom, and with that wisdom, she chose to walk into the upcoming chapters of her life with strength. Birthdays, celebrations, small joys, and the laughter of those she loved became the beautiful events she now lived for.

The dream, the person, the fuel — all of it remained a part of her, but no longer as chains. It became a quiet undercurrent, a reminder of how deeply her soul could feel, but also how gracefully it could move forward. Yakshu carried it like a secret star inside her, but her eyes looked ahead, glowing with the light of new beginnings.