I Think I’m the Tree

Okay, before you start panicking, this is not a prank. This post isn’t sarcastic. No roasting, no trolling, and no chaotic opinions.
Just… me.
Sitting on a bench.
Talking to a tree.
(Yes, I know how that sounds. Just go with it.)

The Real Stuff

I went out to feed my pet, Laddo, on the balcony—she has a habit of treating the whole house like her personal food court, so the balcony's just easier to clean. I wasn’t planning to stay, but the weather had other ideas. Bangalore, in its usual unpredictable glory, gave me a hot day, surprise rain, and then this perfect, quiet cold that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, the world’s trying to calm you down.

That’s when I saw this tree.

It was shedding. Its dry leaves clung on as if they didn’t want to let go. And under the dull moonlight, with the stars silently watching, I sat there… and weirdly, compared myself to it.

The tree stood tall, even with everything falling apart around it. It had only a few leaves left—kind of like me and the people I still have in my corner. I wondered what it would say if I asked it how it felt when everyone left.
But I think I already knew.

Seasons pass.
Leaves fall.
New ones bloom.
That’s how it works.

It reminded me of my past friendships—how I once believed my life revolved around two people. We shared years of memories, from the early school benches to secrets whispered between classes. One of them I’d known almost my whole life; the other, we clicked instantly, even though our time together was shorter.

Over time, they both left the school—but they never really left me. At least, not immediately. We tried to hold on. We said we would. But sometimes, people drift—not because of anger or blame, but because life quietly pulls us in different directions.

I stayed. In the same classrooms, the same hallways, their presence lingered like echoes. I thought if they left, I’d lose a part of myself. And for a while, I did.

Moving on wasn’t easy. It took nearly two years to stop waiting for a message, a call, or just something that said, “I miss you too.” But that silence, as heavy as it was, taught me something: I didn’t break.

Slowly, two new people crashed into my life—and I mean crashed. They were chaotic, loud, and crazy in all the best ways. They didn’t replace what I’d lost, but they brought something new. Something I didn’t know I needed: laughter that didn’t carry history, only the moment.

They taught me how to let go. How to live in the now. And—if I’m being honest—how to curse after every single line like it was punctuated. (It's not my proudest flex, but hey, character development comes in all forms.)

The dry leaves were just a season of me.
And I guess we all need that one season—the one that feels like everything is falling—but really, it’s just making space for growth.

I’ve missed a lot. At least, it feels like I have. But the truth? No one really notices. Everyone's busy dealing with their own falling leaves.

I wanted to turn this into a poem, but I couldn’t confine the words. So here I am, trying to turn confusion into clarity. I don’t know what I truly want in life yet. Everything feels like I’m doing it for someone else. Like I’m stuck between who I was, who I am, and who I’m supposed to be. And I just need one chance—one spark—to feel alive again.

I don’t want to miss life. But I don’t know how to catch up with it either.

Maybe that tree helped me take the first step.

Outro / Reflection

Maybe this post isn’t about trees or weather or even friendships. Maybe it’s just about change—the kind that creeps in slowly and quietly shifts the way we see ourselves and the world.

I’m still in the middle of figuring life out. Still navigating the blur between childhood innocence, teenage chaos, and the responsibilities of growing up. And I guess that’s okay.

This blog is going to be my space to pause, reflect, and breathe. To write about the little things that often go unnoticed, the big things that keep me up at night, and everything in between.

So, if you're reading this, thank you for being here. I don’t have all the answers, but I’m learning to ask better questions.

This is the beginning of something.
Something personal.
Something real.