There was a restlessness of the spirit that did not stem from events that happen. It exists. Like how that patch of dirt has always existed on the corner of the almirah. No one knows how, but its existence has been proven over generations of the family.
The singing comforts of everyday sounded off-key. That trail of ants that crawled near the bedside annoyed incessantly. A half hour was spent every night before sleep in killing the army, only to see a fresh crop emerge the next day.
Srishti needed to leave.
The city and life as she had known and loved had ceased to be. A new chapter had to begin and she had to fill the ink in her pens to write it into her life.
That morning she had snapped. When she woke up to the drumming noises of the factory nearby. The strange consolation the sounds of its machinery once gave, sounded jarring. The coffee was just not of the right consistency.
So she decided she needed to pack. And leave. No notices. No formalities. Simply leave. She had no idea where she was going. She needn't know. She knew she was a woman who felt life from within. She will find her way. That much she knew.
(I don't know what this is a part of. I just had to write)