Shreya’s writing really hits home for me. I struggle with identity, depression, etc…, too, but I choose to joke about it while she looks into her soul. Her writing touches my heart.

Shreya Vikram

Sometimes, it happens.

Your voice, you see, it disappears. No warning, no explanation.

Vanished. Absent. Lost.

I say ‘you’ when I should be saying ‘I’. I know this. I know futility. I know I am really asking: if I tell this story differently, will I bring my voice back?

No, I suppose. (I am nothing if not pragmatic.)

I, then.

Well, sometime, it happened- to me- sometime last year- after June.

A portrait: birthdays in June, a voice in my throat, swollen, a jewel.

I sing on my birthday.

A portrait: laughter high and free, song breathing through candlelight and cake, a voice shaping into my lips and I don’t know what to do with my hands and so I sing. In my mouth, the word ‘you’ changes to ‘me’ and the line: happy birthday to me is so ridiculous, we burst out laughing instead.

This is how it was…

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