Volatile Adolescence
Theory of Evolution.
prologue
The Magnitude of My Love
Love is a terrible thing to happen to anyone. When you love someone, you want to just be yourself. You want to show a side of you that has never really been seen by anyone else. You want to do things you’ve never done with anyone else before. You want to hug them harder than anyone else before, you want to kiss them slower than anyone else before (if there was someone before).
But most of the time, my love remains one sided. I feel alienated. I feel sad. I feel jealous. I just… stop feeling after a point. I keep thinking about them so much that I forget that they don’t know what I was thinking. I progress so fast in my relationship that I forget that they need more time than me.
I dream about them so much that I forget that they weren’t there in my dreams. I forget that they are a real person too, not just a figment of my imagination. I forget that they have a mind of their own. They have their own preferences, ways of showing their love and their own dreams.
I forget that they aren’t made for me, crafted specifically for my needs. Perhaps that’s why I believe they aren’t made for me. Perhaps that’s why I believe they aren’t the one. The one for me.
I alienate myself from the truth. I cry for reasons that don’t make any sense. With anyone else, I’d use logic, try to make sense of things.
She just — breaks me. I change around her. Nobody else matters when I see her. I’d leave all my friends, my parents, my family and everything else that’s supposed to matter to me — just to live with her, in her arms.
But that’s not how I should think; nobody should feel that way. People shouldn’t break relationships with others just to strengthen another one. People should value their friendships, family and romantic relationships equally, without needing to sacrifice one for the other.
That’s what logic says.
But with her, I don’t care what logic says.
I started working out because I thought I didn’t deserve her. I thought I didn’t look good enough for her. I started writing poetry because I didn’t know how to express my love for her. I started studying harder because I wanted to become a somebody.
I didn’t want her to stick with a nobody.
I told my parents I want to be a doctor, because she wanted to be one. Of course, I didn’t tell her. I started writing my unfinished novel again because I told her about the ending, and she deserves the full story.
Every day when I see her going somewhere, I follow her without thinking much. I try to find her when she isn’t with me. She is the only one who matters to me.
But when I go somewhere without her, she doesn’t follow me. I am not the only one who matters to her. The way it should be.
The way I love isn’t sustainable. It isn’t reciprocate-able. Nobody can give me what I want, and if someone can, I couldn't care less.
Because she is the only one that I want. She is the only one I’ve chased in 4 years. I fell in love with her when I was 11, and I still haven’t fallen out. I’m 15.
I hope I never fall out.
I have loved her this way for the last 4 years. The only thing it has brought me is pain, suffering, misery and depression. I pushed a pencil down my arm when she left me the first time; that mark is still here, three and a half years later.
But I refuse to give up. It doesn’t make sense. She can’t give me what I want. She knows that, I know that, but I try anyway. I just try to stay quiet, lower my expectations and exist.
Like, okay, we’re dating, it’s cool.
But that’s not how I really feel. I don’t want the world to see this side of me. I don’t want her to see it either.
When she wrote that letter, telling me she loved me, I didn’t care she said it because she wanted to end this chapter of our lives, and say goodbye one final time. The only thing I cared about was the fact that she loved me.
I didn’t care if she couldn’t give me the love I wanted at that moment, because I had waited for this moment for 4 years. That’s a bloody long time.
I’m not a hopeless romantic — I always hope, I keep hoping even when all hope is lost.
I never give up.
That’s the only reason she’s dating me again.
I never give up.
I’ll kill myself before I break up with her, even if I cry every day, even if I’m slitting my wrist every day.
If she isn’t with me, I am not living this life.
That’s the only day I’ll give up and kick the stool.
CHAPTER 1
ACT I
Dear ▬▬▬,
It’s been almost 4 years, yet I find that my love for you has only strengthened. It doesn’t make much sense, does it? I’ve already shown you the magnitude of my love, I mean, I never give up, do I? I told you I’d leave everyone in my life just to be with you, and it sounds poetic, it sounds as if I’m saying it just to prove a point.
But I wasn’t. I put a lot of thought into it, it wasn’t the dumbo and childish Dashmehar thinking. Do I really care if I lose my friends? Nope. Do I really care if I lose my parents? Nope. Do I really care if I lose you? If I never see your face again? If I never talk to you again?
Yes, I do.
I could live without my friends and family, but I can’t live without you. And I have suppressed this feeling for so long, it feels so good to just keep saying it.
You know the poem I wrote about walking to the pharmacy, walking through the bus stand, and just not knowing what to do? It was from a dream. We were old, mid 50’s, and you left me. Not a divorce, not really an argument, you just left. You didn’t find me interesting anymore. You didn’t find me funny anymore; you didn’t find me attractive anymore.
You didn’t love me anymore.
And that’s my biggest fear.
The last time I wrote something like this (1284), it ended up coming true. Which is why I’m not being pessimistic right now.
I’m hoping that we work out, I hope that you never leave me, I hope that you always love me, no matter what condition I am in. But most importantly,
I hope you never get bored with me, my jokes, my love, my jealousy, my ragebait and my clinginess.
Dear ▬▬▬,
Hello, again.
I feel that was too generic and/or similar to everything else I’ve written about you.
It’s got to be special, man.
You know, 1425 is a pretty special number. I mean, on a 24-hour clock, that’s 2 o’clock, the 26th minute.
You know what happened in the 27th minute? You said YES.
It had been 1425 days since I’d loved you, btw, that’s the reference.
Honestly, I have nothing to tell you anymore. I mean, I’ve told you everything about myself at this point.
Well, there is one thing.
The scenarios I’ve thought about. The scenarios of me kissing you. I want it to be a surprise, but basically, what I was thinking was that when you come for the sleepover in Victory Valley, I could convince everyone to come to ▬▬▬’s house.
Then, while all of them would be walking, doing God knows what, I take you to this spot I found. I’m not telling you the spot. There, we talk for a while, and then we kiss. After we kiss, I whisper something in your ear, and I haven’t thought of anything from there.
And honestly, I haven’t thought of the spot. I had this dream that we were sitting by the pool at 12, and nobody else was around, and we kissed, but honestly, and rather let you take me where you want to kiss, because I didn’t like that place. So, I reimagined, but I couldn’t find a spot as perfect as it should be for a girl like you.
So yeah, that’s the “scenario”.
Anyways ily (obviously), and like, are we married yet?
“Will she like it? I mean, I’m writing all of this before my final exams. I should probably study,” I thought to myself.
“Ah, fuck it. This is more important. You know how you felt when you hugged her yesterday. You genuinely melted. I don’t think you feel that way when you top the class.” My subconscious intervened.
“You’ll get the love you so desperately chase, Dashmehar, if you keep writing. If you keep writing poems and pieces expressing how much you love her, she’ll eventually love you too.” My chair spoke mockingly.
I’m high again, aren’t I?
Fuck.
ACT II
Dear ▬▬▬,
Self-erasure
a psychological behaviour characterized by the conscious or subconscious suppression of one’s own needs, identity, and voice to avoid conflict, gain approval, or ensure safety, often rooted in childhood.
Disillusionment
a feeling of disappointment resulting from the discovery that something is not as good as one believed it to be.
Monotropism:
an intense narrowing of emotional and cognitive focus onto one person or idea, gradually displacing other attachments, interests, and aspects of self.
“Tere kaarwa mein shaamil hona chahun
Kamiyan tarash ke mainkaabil hona chahun
Ve ki karan ve ki karan”
(He wants to be part of the beloved’s journey. He is willing to carve away his flaws, reshape himself, and become worthy, yet he remains confused about how to do so.)
- Bulleya, Ae Dil Hae Mushkil, 2016.
“Sometimes I forget what love is
Trust me, love me, take me right back”
- A$AP Rocky, PUNK ROCKY, 2026.
ACT III
Dear ▬▬▬,
Vivid Imagery
…
I see blue, I see red,
I see colours that don’t make sense.
I see yellow, I see green,
I see cannabis burying me.
I see people coming in, going out,
I see time screaming out loud.
It doesn’t like walking constantly,
It wants to relax, well, probably.
I see crochets and quavers,
bass leaking from the speakers.
I see red cups, and blue eyes,
I see colours that hypnotise.
I know my eyes are red,
I know this fucked up shits in my head.
I know nobody’s here; lost in my feelings,
I know I’m remembering half-forgotten things.
- Dashmehar Singh
I’ve never been the kind of person who wants to drink, smoke, be high, etc. I mean that. I haven’t even tasted alcohol, never touched a cigarette. It’s quite sad that we were born in a generation that’s made it a status symbol, at least during adolescence. Everyone knows that it’s bad for them, but music and street culture has popularised its usage. While some use it as an escape from pain, most use it for recreation. Recreation in the sense that they do it for fun, to feel high, or to be able to flaunt the fact that they do drugs.
I don’t know why I’m the only one who never wants to drink alcohol. I mean, I’ve seen my friends drink occasionally, and they offered me a shot too. I declined. It’s not just about health for me, though.
It’s about a promise.
It’s about honesty.
Dear ▬▬▬,
I was thinking about you while studying samaas. So, I opened my laptop, and stalked your Spotify, just like old times. I went through your “Pisces Moon” playlist. I found “tower of memories” there. It’s a song I hadn’t heard in a long while, but I remembered liking it. I gave it another listen, and I relived the moment you left me, at the tower of memories.
Exquisite Interference
…
I call out for help from Eros or Cupid.
I don’t discriminate; the ones who beg
cannot be the ones who choose.
I seek answers about love, about my heart.
I seek clarity; why was I chosen
to be the bearer of unbearable pain.
I had never chased after any woman.
Love seemed secondary when surrounded by greenery,
a lot to do in the flower fields.
But since the day my laughter
was robbed of me,
I cannot look at them fields no more.
I dare not let my pupils slip.
Her voice was soft, gentle,
inviting; home.
It made my anger and masculinity – melt.
Her hands were a luxury,
Finer than silk, shining like diamonds.
Undeserving for a muddy man like me.
Perhaps she knew that.
But why Eros?
Why Cupid?
Striking my heart once was enough,
You didn’t have to strike hers as well.
Her heart was weak,
It shattered.
And so did I.
- Dashmehar Singh.
“You keep writing about how much you love me, about the magnitude of your love, but I don’t want to understand that. It’s come to the point I’ve begun hating the word.
I want to understand you. Not your love, but you. I want to know your favourite flavour of hand sanitiser. Your favourite colour, your favourite movie.
I want to spend quality time with you, emphasis on quality. That’s my love language.”
Her voice wasn’t angry. That almost made it worse.
But I don’t get it.
What does she mean?
She talks like she loves me more than the world, but she doesn’t even show it. Whenever we can spend quality time, she’s with her friend. I watch. I wait. I pretend I don’t mind.
I want to be with her. Only her.
It’s not a bloody threesome.
And quality time isn’t a fucking love language. Physical touch is. Giving compliments is. Giving gifts is. Giving undivided attention is.
What is there to understand about me anyway?
For as long as I can remember, I have only loved her. That’s been my identity, to myself at least. I changed for her. I went to the gym for her. For as long as I can remember, I’ve tried to become the perfect guy she has always envisioned.
I don’t know myself beyond that.
“It’s never too late to try, young man.”
The chair creaked behind me; he sounded serious.
“Well, I guess you’re right.”
“But I have to get all of these emotions out of me first. They feel stuck somewhere between my throat and my chest. I don’t understand what I’m feeling.”
“Well then, put the pen to the paper. The way you have been for so long.”
The desk suddenly looked heavier.
“I guess you’re right.”
“Oh, I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
“Fuck.”
Fine, I’ll say it. You aren’t the person that I want. You aren’t the person that I’ve envisioned as “perfect”. In fact, you aren’t even who I thought you were, the one I made you out to be in my head.
I don’t like that. I’ll be blunt. You aren’t the one I want.
You aren’t the one, period.
There’s a reason I’m saying this. Not a good one, but listen to this very carefully. I know what I need. I know what I want. I have goals in my life, and you do too, which I like. But I want someone who loves me, obsessively. The way I love you, I need that love. Honestly, I’m trying to be better. Trying to lower my expectations, trying to fix my flaws, trying to find who I used to be before you, trying to find who I am without you.
I don’t believe that you are the last person I’ll date, the one I’ll marry. Honestly, I was trying to lovebomb you, hoping you’ll fall for me the way I had fell for you, four years ago. You didn’t, you’re smart, you’ve done your own reflection, which is why you came back to me in the first place.
I have a lot of growing to do, a lot of maturing to do. I don’t think you’re ready for that. I have a lot more lies in me that I need to spit out, a lot more manipulation I need to try. I wanted to be the hero 2 years ago, but now, I just want to be me.
It’s weird saying this, but I don’t love you the way I used to. That’s the bitter truth. You shouldn’t really care, because I still love you (somewhat), but I’m growing apart. I don’t know about apart, but I’m definitely growing.
Let me tell you who I am without you.
I am an academic weapon.
I am a sportsperson.
I’m an expert in exercise science.
I’m a poet.
I’m a musician.
I’m someone with an ego that yet knows no bounds.
However, with you, it melts. When I say your heart was too weak, I don’t mean it was too weak for love, or my love.
I meant it was too weak for me, not my love. Nobody understands my ambitions. Nobody understands my needs. Nobody understands me.
I’m just never focused. I don’t know why. Well, now I do.
You give me discipline, you give me motivation, you will be the reason for my success.
I’m a lot of things without you, ▬▬▬, but what I will never be is someone successful without you.
But I can’t change who you are. I have often said I know you better than yourself, but I don’t think that’s true anymore. I will not undermine who you are as a person, but what I will say are lies, stupid shit that doesn’t make sense, and clingy shit.
Clingy shit that you don’t want, clingy shit that you don’t like.
And I don’t want you with me if that happens, which it will. There is a certain part of me that wants revenge for what you did to me. I might let it win, because I want to see how it feels to me. More importantly, I want to see that pain inflicted upon you. And I’ll make sure you don’t recover quickly.
Fuck you for what you’ve done to me for 4 years.
I’m a free man.
Dear ▬▬▬,
I’ve realised something important; I don’t want love,
I want obsession.
The way I have obsessed over you for all these years, I need someone to obsess over me. I need someone who finds me so perfect that perfection itself is a word too imperfect to describe me (at least for them).
You say you love me, sure, but I don’t see it. I’ll be honest, I think my ex was better at loving me than you.
Damn, that feels good to say.
You say you don’t like showing affection in public. Fine. Respectfully, that’s acceptable. But talking to me whenever you have time is not a public display of affection. You value your friend (since you only have one in school) over me. Even when she isn’t there, you value others over me.
You said you wanted to see the real me. The one hiding behind this mask of “I’ve been loving you for so long” and “It’s 0-4” and “You don’t understand the magnitude of my love”.
I showed him to you. You didn’t see him.
I am stupid, I am hyperactive, I don’t act formally even when I’m supposed to. I say stupid stuff all the time. Just because you didn’t know what to say doesn’t mean I’m unapproachable. I put down the mask, hoping you’d love the real me. You didn’t.
That’s the bloody reason I changed into someone I’m not.
Into someone I don’t want to be.
I don’t care about you and your friend talking to each other. I don’t care about your relationship with her. I like her as a person, but I hate her when she’s with you.
I want you to be with me all the fucking time. I want you to understand that when I stare into your eyes, I want you there with me. I need you with me all the fucking time. I need you to understand me. I’m not going to settle for anything less.
I will not compromise. I will not let my heart wither every single fucking day.
I’m selfish.
I’m unreasonable.
I’m stupid.
I’m mean.
I don’t fucking care.
There are three options in my head:
1. You understand this on your own. You start reaching my expectations. You start loving me.
2. You don’t understand, you keep arguing, and I become quiet, unresponsive, till you finally start pushing and falling for me. That’s when I’ll leave you, or do something worse.
3. You leave me right now, and come back to me again, when 1 of the first 2 options will happen, or the cycle will repeat.
I am perfect, only if you can love me the way I want you to.
Fuck love, I want obsession; I need obsession. I need attachment. I need control, which gives me safety.
That’s what it’s always been about.
Safety.
“Fucking hell, what the fuck did I just write? Oh my god.”
My hands went straight to my head, fingers digging into my hair.
“I don’t even know how I feel right now. It feels so fucking good to let that out, but I feel so guilty. If she ever reads this, she’s going to kill me. Oh God. I don’t know what I’m going—”
“Shut up, dumbass.”
The chair’s legs scraped lightly against the floor.
“You can’t blame yourself for feeling that way. You felt suffocated, as if you were drowning in a pool that’s three feet deep. You couldn’t ask for help, so you decided to help yourself. Stop blaming yourself like a guy in his 50s going through a divorce.”
“Uh, okay, but—”
“And for the ‘if she’s going to read this’ part, let her read it.”
The room felt smaller.
“She deserves to know. She needs to know. If she can’t handle the ugly you, she doesn’t deserve better you.” He paused. “Well, I know she’s going to handle it. You both are quite the same.”
I froze.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The words came out sharper than I intended. My hands dropped slowly from my head.
Silence.
The chair didn’t creak.
Didn’t shift.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
I leaned forward slightly, staring at it like it might answer if I looked hard enough.
“Where’d you go?”
The silence stretched, and the room returned to its original shape.
Ah fuck.
Dear ▬▬▬,
You didn’t like that, did you?
I did. It feels so good to talk shit about you. If it was a job, I’d be a trillionaire. The only thing I’d be missing is the 1.
The 1 for me.
Apart from jokes, that felt really good to say. I had a lot on my chest, and even though I’m typing it, imagining that I’m writing this to you feels much more relieving.
Is it justified? I don’t know.
Is it fair? No clue.
Is it really cool? Hell yeah.
Imagine your own boyfriend is WRITING shit about you. Not talking behind your back, not telling his friends, but writing it. That’s got to be some kind of mental disorder. Or just a really common unspoken thing. Or maybe just a really good sign of how much someone loves you.
Well, you already know the last one.
Love you, tan90.
youre such a nice guy omg, really raising the bar 😭🤍