bhaskar saikia

There comes a time in life when you don’t fight the past anymore—you just let it die.

Not with hatred. Not with vengeance. But with quiet acceptance. A nod to all that was, and a soft, silent farewell.

My yesterday is dying. And for the first time, I’m not trying to resuscitate it.

It held too much: failures that whispered I wasn’t enough, betrayals that left bruises in places I didn’t know could ache, and moments of humiliation I carried like invisible weights. I thought clinging to them gave me identity, gave me reason. But all they gave me was a life half-lived. A tomorrow perpetually delayed.

Many futures had tried to knock on my door. Gentle ones. Brave ones. But they withered before they could begin. Because yesterday stood guard, always louder, always heavier.

But not this time.

This time, I’m standing at the edge of the past, watching it breathe its last. And I am not heartless for doing so—I am finally choosing myself.

I’m choosing to make space—for the kind of tomorrow that doesn’t have to wrestle with ghosts just to exist. I’m choosing light, not out of denial, but as a rebellion against darkness.

And in doing so, I realise: to let something die is sometimes the most loving thing you can do.

Especially when that something is yesterday.