The space he left behind

Sedinam felt it most acutely at night. As the campus lights dimmed and the lively sounds from the nearby hostels softened into the distance, the emptiness within her became amplified. She'd watch her roommate on video calls with her parents, their laughter filling the room as they recounted stories. Others would share screenshots of loving messages from their fathers or the routine financial support they received. Sedinam would offer a smile and a quick tap on those posts, but she scrolled past quickly, trying to outrun the ache that settled in her chest. Her father passed away when she was 10, or so her mother had told her. His image was a collection of framed photographs in their living room: a tall man in pressed shirts, a tender smile gracing his face as he held a little girl on his lap. Sometimes, she would stand before those pictures, wondering what it would have felt like to be held by him, to be protected, warned, and guided through life's uncertainties. He never had the chance to sit her down and explain how a real man should treat her, nor could he advise her not to let anyone diminish her worth for attention. He wasn't there to teach her that she deserved consistency, not confusion, in her relationships. As a result, she learned from the wrong sources. During her first year at university, she encountered Daniel. He possessed charm, confidence, and a captivating way with words. He called her "my queen," sent morning greetings, and held her hand openly. Yet, when he ignored her for days, he would apologize with insincere words. When he disappointed her, he deflected blame onto stress, school, or life, anything but himself. And she accepted it. She had never been taught that love should be a constant and reliable force. A missed call felt like a betrayal, a delayed response like abandonment, and a simple compliment like a precious treasure. She clung to these meager gestures and called it affection. Her friends tried to warn her, saying "Seddy, he’s not serious" and "You deserve better" and "Why are you always the one trying?" But she always defended him, insisting that he was trying, that he loved her in his own way, and that they didn't understand him. The truth was, she didn't want to understand herself. She was attempting to fill a void that existed long before Daniel came into her life, a void shaped like a father’s voice, advice, and protection. A father who would have said, "Any boy who makes you cry is not worthy of you." When Daniel ultimately left without explanation or apology, she broke. Not outwardly, but in a quiet, internal collapse. She stopped attending lectures, avoided her friends, and cried silently in the bathroom to avoid disturbing her roommate. She replayed old messages, wondering where she had gone wrong. Months passed before she realized she hadn’t lost love; she had lost an illusion. During a counseling session organized by the university, she finally spoke the truth aloud: "I think I mistook attention for love." The counselor nodded gently and explained that many people who grew up without emotional security make the same mistake. She wasn't taught what healthy love looked like, but she could learn. That realization became a turning point in her life. Gradually, Sedinam started prioritizing herself. She dedicated herself to her studies, joined a campus media group, and formed genuine friendships. She learned to appreciate her own company, understanding that loneliness was not a sign of weakness but a temporary phase. She stopped seeking validation through constant replies, ceased over-explaining her worth, and refused to settle for crumbs of affection. She still missed her father, deeply, on some days. However, she no longer blamed herself for his absence. She understood that his absence had shaped her pain, but it would not define her future. One evening, as she sat beneath a mango tree near the library, she wrote in her journal: "I am not broken. I was just never taught how love should feel. Now, I’m learning." And for the first time in years, she truly believed it.