Photostory by Haritima Sharma Roars of laughter warm up the cold corners of my home as sweet conversations are stirred over a game of cards. The afternoon has painted the walls with a warm shade of amber and I feel it spread inside my chest. The flushed faces, the bent-over backs, and the soft snickering melt something inside me. A doubt emerges in my mind—maybe I was wrong? A pang of deep guilt creeps up on me—why was I so cruel? And then, shame takes over me—how could I do this? I find myself involuntarily following my mind down a meandering path—a path that is familiar but not my favourite. A bedlam of voices pulls me out of it. I am not in the same room, I realise. The amber is drained of all its warmth and the air densely settles on my skin. Contorted faces surround me. The cards on the table are pushed aside. We are playing another game. The one we play every day. Our favourite. Their favourite. My vision slowly blurs. I feel myself turning blue. Gasping for air. It's cold. So very cold. Always.