Do men err? Tan!

ENTRY 1

June 8th, 2026. 10:00 PM.

Today. Yes, today — I got up early for the first time in forever.

I even went for a morning walk while listening to my song (Line Without a Hook). And just like that, my day was already feeling better. I did some shopping on the way back home — took a shortcut to the supermarket, picked up vegetables and a few supplies for the house.You know how exhausting weekends can get in the summer. So I try to get everything done in the morning or evening. Never in the afternoon. I repeat — never in the afternoon. The sun burns like hell. Like, damn.

Anyway. On the way back, I saw something strange. Well — not that strange, but still. A stray cat was crossing the road ahead of me.

It was so cute that I followed it. But I was too late — by the time I got closer, the cat had already disappeared into the bushes. I tried to find it, but there wasn't a trace. As I was getting up, I noticed a small book. Covered in leather.

I hesitated at first. But curiosity got the best of me. I picked it up and looked closely. There was nothing on the outside — no name, no address. I thought maybe someone had lost it, or dropped it in a hurry.

Maybe the information was inside. So I tried to open it.No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't.

When I looked closer, I saw a tiny lock on the notebook. I was surprised — how could someone even make a key that small?

I glanced at the time. It was getting far too late to wander around the bushes, so I held the book in my hands and started walking toward home.

When I got back, the atmosphere was tense. No one was in a good mood.

I went to the kitchen, set the vegetables aside, and walked toward my sister. I asked her what happened.

She hesitated. That spiked my worry. Then she told me to follow her to the room.

Once we were inside, she told me: our elder sister had gotten into another fight with her in-laws.Yeah. That happens every single time.

I looked at my sister. I could tell she felt guilty too — but powerless. So she just stared at the ceiling, letting out long, heavy sighs.

And she was right. There was nothing I could do. My sister lives in the UK. And it hurts — knowing I'm useless from here. Because even inside my own family, my voice gets crushed. My vision gets 

blurred by the weight of everyone's expectations.

I'm not saying I hate my family. They raised me well. But somewhere along the way, the way they handle pressure changed. Now, even a small mistake can trigger their full wrath.

It used to terrify me. I prayed to every god in the Hindu pantheon. Nothing changed.

Now I'm at a point where I care — but I also don't. They shout. They yell. I've become the escape goat for their problems. And being the youngest, all I can do is take it.Truth is, I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

Why?

Because it hurts.

To hear things like:

("You guys are like leeches. Always leeching off us. Do something with your life instead of being a burden. Why won't God just take me? It would've been better than living with you.")

To be the reason for their misery:
("If it weren't for you, I'd be in a better place. Why don't you just leave us alone?")

To wound them just by existing:("How many more years are you going to eat me alive? You've taken everything I've earned — and you're still useless. You'll die alone.")

Even if it's said in anger — it still cuts. Every single time.

Every morning I wake up, those words echo before they even speak.And the worst part? When they're in a good mood, they're like different people. They apologize. 

They act kind. But the moment something goes wrong — even if it's outside work — it's somehow our fault. We didn't make things easy enough.

I've developed anxiety because of it. Fear of crowds. Fear of making mistakes. Fear of being hurt again.

I just wish I could escape — even for a little while. I've thought about leaving. But then again... I love them too much to walk away.

If only they could see how much it hurts to stay silent. To cry without sound. To have no one hear you.

My family is calling me for a gathering now. And I'm scared to even sit with them. I don't know why. I just am.

The only place I feel safe is here — writing my pain onto these pages. It doesn't judge me. It lets me feel whatever I need to. It lets me shape my life the way I want.

They're calling again. I have to go — or they'll get angry.

But for some reason, writing feels addictive now. Almost like a drug. It makes me feel lighter.I don't know when I'll write again. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a week.

I'll come back when I can.

AlexMonday