June 19th, two-thousand-thirteen,
The sky too blue, the sun too clean.
A law book borrowed, fineliners bright,
A notebook stained with late-night fight.
I sat on grass that didn’t care
If I became what they prepared.

Angelica spun in sunlight's grace,
Red hair loud in an open space.
Ollie watched with narrowed eyes—
Joy offended him, I realised.
But I was watching someone else.
Someone quieter than myself.

Tom.

Half-lost in thought, half drawing lines,
Margin boxes, broken signs.
He never spoke just to be heard,
He studied silence like a word.
I sat beside him, notebook out,
A calm between our seeds of doubt.

He asked me once,
“Do people ever become who they dream of being?”
And I replied without looking up,
“That’s what becoming is.”

He smiled—small, almost sad.
Like hope remembered what it never had.

Back then they wanted rings and vows,
Ceremony, silence, and compliant brows.
But I was mapping flights and futures,
Filling scholarship forms under fluorescent sutures.
I was leaving.
I had to.
To become more than someone’s daughter in a dress
I never chose.

Tom stayed.
I heard pieces, stories.
His voice buried beneath late nights and old glories.
And then, years later,
Scrolling through strangers and almosts,
There he was—older, maybe lost.

I typed:

Hi. How are you?
I don’t know if you remember… first year uni.

Click.
Send.

And somewhere, quietly,
The past exhaled.

Becoming is a coming-of-age novel that follows two lovers who meet as students at a prestigious university, filled with ambition and hope for the future. She dreams beyond the cultural and familial expectations pressing down on her—expectations that demand marriage and stability over growth and independence. Instead, she chooses a path of education and purpose, eventually moving to Harvard to pursue a dual degree in public health and medicine, determined to challenge the political structures that govern healthcare. She later becomes health minister.

Meanwhile, he remains behind, drifting from the person he once aspired to be. As she builds her future, he struggles with sobriety and the collapse of his own ambitions. Years later, curiosity and nostalgia lead her to find his Instagram profile. With a tentative "Hi, how are you? I don’t know if you remember…" she reaches out, reopening a chapter that never fully closed.

Spanning continents, ideologies, and inner transformations, Becoming is a story about identity, resilience, and the sometimes painful, sometimes beautiful path to becoming who we are meant to be.

Let me know what you think!

On the twenty-fourth of May,
In the year ninety-five,
My father rushed into his little house—
No. 2, on a street that barely breathed.
Half brick, half wood,
It bulged slightly on the side,
A stubborn house that refused to collapse,
Like him.

He had studied far away,
With Professor Harding—
A man of levels and formulas,
Of tables and truth.
My father would say,
“What a remarkable book!”
And wave his hands through the candle smoke,
As if stirring the periodic table to life.

There’s always room for dessert—
Pie and eggnog ice cream,
Balanced on separate plates,
We eat in alternating bites,
Sweet rhythms of shared delight.

Later, we’d wander the market—
Ginger, turnips, parsnips,
Heads of lettuce cradled in arms.
The peaches were translucent,
Like little suns behind a veil.

Rachael and I would lock the door,
Retreat to my room,
Our feast a secret ritual
Near summer’s fading edge.

I was fifteen pounds thinner then,
Very chic, I thought—
A shadow of myself,
But glowing with iced melon
Eaten quietly in the tea-room at work.

Paris—ah, Paris—
Was everything I’d dreamt.
I stood on the hotel balcony,
Hot chocolate in one hand,
A chocolate croissant in the other.

We were hungry, and
Everything was for me.
It was a fine moment.
A moment that tasted
Like more.

Barely seen by the human eye,
Oats, beans, and tomatoes lie—
Buried deep by patient hands,
Beneath the soil of fertile lands.

From silence springs a mighty oak,
A hundred years in leaves
The root of steam and spinning steel—
Seeds turned the gears of the industrial wheel.

Morning bagels, cotton threads,
Blankets, harvest, daily breads—
They stage the greatest show on Earth,
Of silent power, quiet birth.

What wisdom do they hold within,
To rise again, to grow, to win?
They travel far, they stand their ground,
In wind and wave, they still are found.

They guard, endure, and reunite,
With every dawn, they seek the light.
Across the fields, across the seas,
They whisper dreams upon the breeze.

Six hundred seeds in rows aligned,
Each with a legacy, each designed.
Given water, sun, and space,
They bloom in forms no eye can trace—

In colours bold, in shapes unknown,
Each seed becomes a world its own.
Holding hope in fragile shells,
A future that the earth foretells.

Fruits, seeds, and blooms,
Bare feet pressing into soft, mossy ground—
A green light spills like a carpet
Across an island hushed in surreal quiet.
Water glides over stones,
Each rock alive with shadow and shine.
I lift my gaze to the endless blue above,
Where even the edge of a leaf feels extraordinary.
Earth, sand, and pine needles press into my soles.
Can you hear the echo?
These hands can shift the earth—
But it will never be enough for you.
We are animals stealing from the sky.
Even the smallest insect leaves its trace.
The landscape shifts around me,
Yet the path—worn and winding—remains.

You gather stars from the night sky,

one by one, 
as if their light could fill the silence in me —
but even galaxies fall short.
Don’t hold my words too tightly.

I gambled on something fragile,

hoped the weight of chance 
might land in love.
I want this to stay.

To linger in the space 
where laughter once came easy.

Now, every breath feels heavier,
 but I face the shadows head-on.
These hands —
they could cradle more than constellations, 
lift the weight of dreams.

But even towers laced in gold

feel hollow
 when you look right through me.
I take it all in the ache, the beauty, the stillness —
and yet,

I remain
 less than what you seek

I wandered slow, the sky turned grey,
And aching words I longed to say.
Oh no! Each voice, each weary face—
A mark of sorrow, lost in place.

My mind could hear a distant cry,
A whisper soft, a heavy sigh.
It trickled down the shower wall,
A trembling echo in the hall.

Proclaim thy voice, let silence break!
Fly far from all the hearts that ache.
Away! Away! through bark and stone,
Through mossy paths where dreams have grown.

Yet still today, the light shines clear—
Because you came, because you're near.
And though the past may softly weep,
Its tears now lull my soul to sleep.

A white-hued pig upon the surface
Of this venerable institution—
Exhausted by a deluge of thought,
A writer sits, shackled and bound.
My summer shade shall never fade,
Mourn me not when I am gone.
So long as breath resides in me,
Let not my treasures be undone.
As tender as a budding flower,
Unshaken by the storm's harsh cry,
Your beauty, mirrored, shall not wane—
More lovely still, when eye meets eye.
Too fierce the sun in heaven’s gaze,
Yet grants you life without a name.
Your worth uncertain, yet profound,
Death shall not boast its fleeting claim.
The golden law, both sweet and just—
Shall I compare myself to thee?
If this be folly, or end-time’s edge,
Let love’s truth live eternally.

It began as a whisper,
Carried by the sweetness of emotion.
The world holds no simple truths.
He asks, "Why are you not well?"
The river merges with the ocean—
Does the sunlight not kiss the sea?
I learned that truth from another.
I cannot repay what you have given me.
Will you receive him with grace?
May the gates of heaven not turn him away.
Yes, there was laughter, there was joy.
Lord, please lift him from his grief.

The air was clean, but too still—like the world had paused mid-breath. The sea mist clung heavy, almost oily, and the waves crashed with a restless urgency, as though something deep below was stirring. A ship had gone missing, the town murmuring about rogue tides and sudden squalls. But I felt something else. Watching. Waiting.

Maybe the coast had changed. Or maybe I had.

Four summers had passed since I’d been here. The world had shifted beneath my feet, but some invisible tether had drawn me back. I didn’t know what it was—only that it felt like someone. And now that I was here, the feeling was stronger than ever.

Nothing ordinary ever lasted long in this place.

Swimmers lined the beach, hoping for sun that barely pierced the cold haze. They lay still, wrapped in towels like cocoons, their silence disturbed only by the occasional gull. No one entered the water—it had that kind of chill that settled in your bones and shook something loose.

I walked along the rocks, careful, alert. That’s when I felt it: eyes on me. That presence. My heart skipped.

“I solemnly swear I’m up to no good,” I murmured with a grin, the words more armor than amusement. But the feeling didn’t leave. If anything, it grew warmer—familiar.

Dangerous.

Jason.

Seven years. That’s how long it had been since I first met him.

Before Jason, life had been easy—light. I remember the day: early 2013, late for a lecture I can't remember, but I remember the shift. My friend acting strangely. The sudden chill in the air. And Jason, already three steps ahead of me, with my number in his phone before I even knew his name.

I hadn’t seen him. Not until he wanted me to.

I wore a wind-worn jumper, leather shorts, boots. My hair was tangled, sea-salted. We were all new then—fresh out of high school, still pretending we weren’t terrified. But Jason didn’t pretend. He knew things. About the world. About me.

Slick black hair. Emerald eyes that sliced through every lie. A smirk like he’d already lived my story and was waiting for me to catch up. He came from the part of town you only whispered about. And from the second he looked at me, I knew: nothing would be the same.

Days before the café conversation, the three of us—me, Oliver, Mandy—were stretched on the university lawn, soaked in the illusion of peace. The grass was damp from frost, sun low and weak above our jackets. Oliver was tugging at my arm, laughing about some awful group project, when the light dimmed.

A shadow.

He was just there.

The man from my lecture.
He’d sat three seats down, scribbling nothing, eyes always scanning. And now he stood motionless before us, spine too straight, like he’d practiced the moment.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, calm and even. “Mind if I join you?”

Oliver’s laughter died. I felt the shift in the air.

The man didn’t wait. He sat cross-legged across from us with unnerving ease, eyes locking on mine—only mine.

“It’s been a while,” he said softly. “You don’t remember, do you?”

My stomach turned.

He asked my name. Just my name.

And Mandy?
She said nothing.

Later, at the café, I slid into the seat across from Oliver, the corner of my mouth tilted in mock amusement.

“I heard something about you,” I said, stirring my drink.

Oliver glanced up, brow arched. “Should I be worried?”

“That depends,” I replied. “Someone said you’ve been asking about me.”

He leaned back, expression unreadable, but I caught the flicker—hesitation.

“People talk,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I listen.”

“But you did,” I said quietly. “It’s okay if you wanted to.”

A silence settled between us, thick and tight.

He looked around, then lowered his voice. “I heard you’ve been seen. With someone who doesn’t… fit in.”

I froze. “Jason?”

Oliver nodded slowly. “If that’s what he’s calling himself.”

My blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

He leaned closer. “You’ve known him for five minutes. And Mandy—she knows more than she’s letting on.”

I sat back, heart racing.

Jason. A name from the past. A ghost who had vanished without warning.

And now he was back.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

In a quiet college town,
Sun on my skin, sea breeze blowing 'round.
Laughing at the girl I used to be,
Never ready for how sweet goodbyes can be.

Couldn’t afford even one misstep,
We didn’t know a thing, but we leapt.
Why’d we even try, knowing we’d fall apart?
Wearing skorts and denim like they held our hearts.

You learned my secrets, every one,
Now I see—that fight might’ve been our song.

Every time I glance back, it hits me the same,
No tears now—I’m staring at who I became.
That piece of my past was the best thing that was mine,
Can you believe we stood at the edge of time?

In a blank-walled, unfamiliar room,
Swearing my daughter won’t trace my shoes.
They turned a rule-follower into someone wild.

Flash forward—back on campus, still chasing a dream,
Boxes in hand, settling in again, it seems.
Wearing the right blouse, long pants, I look the part,
The halls are empty, but I’ve got my start.

There’s a desk, a drawer, with my name on it now,
Still pretending I’ve got it all figured out somehow.
New faces, warm smiles—I won’t let them in too deep,
Remember when we sat in the grass, beneath the sky so steep?

That’s the memory I carry,
Us laughing softly, so airy.
Forget the looming deadlines,
You turned a good girl into a rebel, mine.

Every time I look, the feeling hasn’t changed,
I’m holding back tears, watching my past rearranged.
This moment—forever the best thing that was mine,
Can you believe we once thought we’d take on the world, so fine?

In that same quiet, colourless room,
My daughter won’t repeat my mistakes, in bloom.
They made a rebel out of me,
A good girl, once lost, now free.

I remember that night—half past midnight,
I rushed out, found you drunk on the sidewalk, in fright.
Screaming for help, that’s when I knew,
I’d fallen, and it was the end too.

Now I’m unlocking truths I never dared before,
If I try, I can make it, I’m sure.
Still guarding all that’s mine,
I swear I won’t repeat what broke me, I’ll shine.

For the first time, I believe in myself,
Pruning my life, cherishing my wealth.
Goodbye means forever now,
It caught me off guard somehow.

Bracing myself for something new,
But I’ve got people in my corner, true.
Sticky notes scattered across the floor,
We’re piecing life together, wanting more.

They’re learning fast, I see,
Just when it starts to feel right, we agree.
Hold on, we can make it work,
When pressure hits, I think of us, we’ll never shirk.

Our mistakes were just different ones,
But together, we’ll rise like the sun.

Still that same feeling when I look back,
Will this déjà vu ever end, no track?
Fighting back tears as I face the mirror,
This will always be the best thing that was mine, clearer.

Standing at the start again,
In a room with bare, unpainted walls, no end.
My daughter won’t follow my footsteps,
They made a rebel out of someone good, no regrets.

You once said I was the one,
And I believed you, under the sun.
Kissing under fairy lights and photos,
It was the kind of night made for stolen moments, those.

Part of me is still there,
That world was all I knew, so fair.
Now I protect my heart with everything I have,
I’m going to rise, no matter the past’s path.

As long as I never look back, I’ll be alright,
This journey—my future, shining bright.

Now, in the deepest recesses of despair,
Crushed beneath the weight of ceaseless toil,
He finds his existence fraying at the edges—
Living alongside his wife, a slow madness creeping.
He folds his clothes in absent-minded haste,
As the days pass in the mournful wail of children he has raised.

He collects his coins,
Each one clinking softly in a mind adrift,
Lost to the nuances of an ancient game of strategy,
To bridge the chasm of distance between them.
Yet, bound by the monotony of his government post,
A nameless cog in the machine,
No one recalls his face,
He remains a shadow, invisible to fame or fortune.

Sundays are consecrated for worship,
But his soul drifts aimlessly on a fragile vessel,
The stillness of the water reflecting his solitude,
Stopping only to rest in a quiet cove, where mountains loom,
Is it not vanity to bask in happiness when it’s fleeting?

What men or gods pursue such madness?
Those who seek splendour in lofty towers,
Cloaked in wealth too vast to ever dissolve,
Chasing fleeting adoration on glittering stages,
Crafting dreams of immortality.
To hold health as a prize greater than life itself—
Yet, at the end, he slips away at 86,
Leaving no mark upon the world.
Not once did he question the path he walked.
In the end, common was all that he ever was.