Another forkful of rice. Chew. Gulp. Sigh.

She mechanically finished eating the plate of rice that she had so unceremoniously mixed with the egg curry. Her stomach would stop troubling her now. It was fed. Her mind was another matter.

She had woken up late. The previous night had been tough. She remembered in bits and pieces the sound of her crying and her heart pounding against her chest. She remembered the dreadful feeling she had at one point. She had felt suicidal. She was afraid of what her mind was capable of.

She hadn’t had a fight. She wasn’t sad. She just had a lump in her chest and felt like the world was closing in on her. She knew her psychological troubles would catch up to her from time to time. She just did not know that they would not give her any warning. Or that she would feel so broken after each episode.

The night before, during the constricted breathing and sounds of crying, she had wanted to hold the neighbour’s dog close to her. Suddenly it felt like the dog would be the solution. She likes dogs; the undivided attention they gave her. The look on their faces when she petted them. The warmth of their attempted hugs. At that moment, she felt like the dog could do wonders. It was 2 in the night. Not practical to wake the neighbours.

Right now sitting at her desk, putting forks full of rice in her mouth, she was thinking of the neighbour’s dog again.