Pretending at sunrise

CHAPTER 5

Chapter Five – When the Magic Quieted

The magic of never running out of conversation was still there—each talk a strand of comfort, laughter stringing the hours together with ease. For a while, it felt like I didn’t need anything more. But life has a way of reminding you that good things don’t shield you from everything.

The call came, and suddenly I was breathless. My grandfather—one of my favorite people, even if we had our differences—was gone. For a few seconds, my world fell silent; everything blurred, like I was trapped inside a nightmare I desperately wanted to wake up from.

I called my mom right away, needing to hear her voice, needing to know she was holding up. I remembered exactly how it felt when my dad died, the emptiness and ache that seemed too much for one person to hold. But my mom… she’s always been the type to bury her feelings, locking them deep inside behind a wall of strength and independence. She is everything I sometimes wish I could be—unbreakable on the outside, even as the world shifts beneath her feet. She couldn’t talk for long; when she cut the call short, I knew she needed space to process alone, and I had to respect that.

Next, I tried my aunt—hoping maybe she’d let me in, share the weight—but it was the same. The women in my family, they’re strong, but sometimes strength sounds a lot like silence.

For once, I didn’t want to buckle my feelings down. I needed to let go, let it out. So I reached for Bambina—my baby, my confidante—but she wasn’t online. My heart ached for her reassurance, that simple “everything will be fine” only she could make me believe. But in that lonely moment, it was my roommate who was there. She saw my pain and hugged me. I let the tears fall, just for a little while. Still, it didn’t feel complete—not until I could talk to Bambina.

I waited, holding everything tight inside, hoping she’d come online soon. Before the hurt, we’d spent another night talking for hours, losing track of time, unjudged and understood. It was wonderful—until it wasn’t.

Losing my grandfather changed something I can’t explain, not even now. When Bambina finally appeared, I let it all out. She was speechless at first, but then, quietly, firmly, she told me it was okay to cry, that I shouldn’t overthink or try to be strong for everyone else. I believed her—not just because I wanted to, but because somehow, the way she said it made it feel true. For a moment, the sadness lifted and I knew: it’s okay to need someone else to tell you everything will be fine.