Serotonin

In a quiet town where the wind rarely changed direction, a small,

unremarkable tree stood on the edge of a vast meadow. It wasn’t tall nor
particularly vibrant like the others that flourished nearby. But for one day
each year, the tree anticipated something magical—it hoped the breeze
would carry to it the whispers of the other trees, the rustling of leaves, an
acknowledgement of its presence.

Maybe the cuckoos would make a nest, bloom new life on its
back, and smile back?

Maybe some thirsty farmer would sit below, quench his thirst
using its shade, and pat back?

Maybe some kid would hide behind its bark while playing a round
of hide and seek, and thank back?

The tree watched far away as two vibrant roses were skillfully grafted
together, their stems entwining in a dance of resilience and hope. A wave
of melancholy washed over it, for while these two had found strength in
their union, it remained an isolated figure on the edge of the meadow,
longing for companionship. The sight of their regeneration ignited a deep
ache within its roots, highlighting its solitude in a world where connection
bloomed around it.

In the heart of the meadow, the tree stood in contemplative silence, its
branches swaying softly in the breeze. It often reflected on a time when its
existence had been coloured by a profound crush, a longing that had
seeped into its very rings. This infatuation wasn’t just a fleeting fancy but
a deep-seated yearning that shaped its essence.

Three seasons ago, the tree had watched a vibrant, graceful willow just
beyond the fence line. Her branches danced with an elegance that
mesmerised the tree, drawing its gaze like a moth to a flame. Each day, it
would lean slightly toward her as if hoping the wind would carry its quiet
admiration across the distance. It had dreamt of their branches
intertwining, creating a canopy of shared whispers and rustling leaves—a
refuge from the world.

But friends surrounded the willow, her laughter echoing in the air like the
sweetest melody, while the tree remained a silent observer, anchored to
its lonely patch of earth. The tree often longed to speak, to share its
thoughts, but the words felt trapped within its bark, unable to break free.
There were moments when the willow would sway closer, her leaves
brushing against the air with a gentle caress, igniting hope within the
tree’s core. Yet, she was always just out of reach, and as the seasons
changed, so too did its chances.

Winter had come, fierce and unyielding, stripping the meadow of its
vibrancy. The tree had witnessed the willow entwined with other
companions, sharing warmth and solace while it stood barren, its heart
encased in ice. The frigid winds howled like ghosts, each gust a reminder
of unreciprocated affection. The tree cried to the skies, but the only
answer was the cold silence of the winter night.

As spring approached, the tree found itself yearning once again. It

watched the buds on the willow bloom and, with them, the realisation that
its love remained unspoken, buried beneath layers of longing and doubt.
There were moments when the tree dared to hope, imagining a life
entwined with hers, filled with laughter and companionship. Yet, as the
petals fell, so did its heart, heavy with the weight of solitude.

In a world where companionship blossomed like wildflowers, the tree felt

like a distant shadow, forever yearning for a connection that seemed
eternally out of reach. Each rustle of the wind became a whisper of what
could have been, a soft reminder of the love it harboured, deeply rooted
yet never realised. It was a silent guardian of its unrequited feelings, a
testament to the beauty of longing amidst the vibrant life surrounding it.

The tree had stood alone for a long time, bracing itself through harsh
winters and dry summers. Three summers ago, its branch was chopped off
because it was labelled rude to cut off sunlight to Mr Roy’s upper
bedroom. Two winters ago, when the cold was especially brutal, it longed
for a moment of warmth, a simple touch of sunlight that never came. And
last year, when the rains were relentless, the tree had waited for the
nourishing drops that other trees seemed to enjoy, but it received none,
staying parched and forgotten. When the sun came over later, and the
rainbow lifted the brows of many, it remained yet, brow-less. The cuddles
it saw kept remaining a dream, just a dream.

This year, however, the tree held onto hope. Maybe the others would
notice it this time. Maybe a gentle wind would sweep through the
meadow, and the rustling leaves would whisper its name. Perhaps the
birds perched on other branches would sing a sweet melody just for it. The
tree felt it deserved that, after everything—the isolation, the cold, the
drought. After all, everyone deserves happiness, don’t they?

The day arrived, the tree waited eagerly, its leaves shimmering with
anticipation. But as the sun climbed higher in the sky, no breeze stirred its
branches. The other trees, busy in their world, swayed together in their
lively conversations, their branches intertwined, while the small tree stood
unnoticed on the edge. Not a single leaf fluttered in its direction. Even the
birds flew by without pausing, without acknowledging its quiet plea for
connection.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the tree recalled a time when the
meadow was alive with laughter, when children had danced in circles
beneath its branches. It had felt the warmth of their joy, the carefree
touches of small hands. Now, it stood apart, a silent observer of a vibrant
life it could never touch. The laughter echoed in the air like a haunting
melody, reminding it of the faded warmth.

The seasons changed, each one a reminder of its solitude. Spring brought
vibrant blooms, yet the tree remained bare, untouched. Summer’s heat
blazed brightly, but its shade felt weak and insufficient compared to the
surrounding giants. Autumn’s falling leaves were a bitter reminder of the
friendships it had never forged and made him bare naked and vulnerable,
and winter’s frost only deepened the stab.

Now and then, a playful gust of wind would sweep through the meadow,
gently teasing the tree's branches. It would swirl around, lifting leaves and
spinning them away, always moving on to join the laughter of the others,
leaving the tree in quiet despair. “Why can’t you stay?” the tree would
long to ask. “Why can’t you share your warmth with me?”

A storm cloud approached. As the skies darkened, the tree’s roots

trembled. It remembered the last time the winds blew fiercely when its
foundation was almost torn apart. This time, there was no wind, just a
heavy silence. It felt the weight of the storm settle in its core. And as the
rain began to fall, the tree shed its leaves—silent tears, falling one by one.

You’re walking away without ever looking back

Slowly vanishing, you were, the moon of my life

Dripping honey to my longing lips of serotonin, back then

You would only remain the tears of my broken heart, henceforth

Why do you join me as a sob?

Night of melancholy, you may, now slowly glide away

Without an embrace

That evening, as the meadow dimmed into darkness, the tree stood still,
every branch heavier with the sorrow of unfulfilled hopes, tears from the
water droplets weeping from the leaves. Not even the moon came to offer
its light. And as it stood alone in the vast field, it realized that perhaps, it
was always meant to stand in the shadows, watching from afar as the
others danced in the wind. It realised that perhaps it was meant to be all
alone; all the shrubs lived together, died together, and here he was,
somewhere behind salvation.

The sky watched the tree, its vastness a reminder of what the tree could
never reach. “You stand alone, little one,” it would say gently. “But do not
despair; your roots run deep.” The soil below, filled with rich nutrients,
would whisper encouragement, “You may feel alone above, but beneath
the surface, you are part of a grand tapestry.”

But the tree still stood, rooted, waiting.

They say if you are going through hell, keep going, honey.