Channel No. Me Top

The television hums in the background like a half-remembered lullaby — white noise for the emotionally overstimulated.
Her top flutters like a thought she was never allowed to finish — red chiffon, loosely tied in the grammar of a chunni, threaded with faint shocks of blue, like veins under a fever dream.
It’s not a scarf. It’s not a statement. It’s the leftover language of sentimentality wrapped around her chest, anchored at the nape — or not — depending on the mood.

The suede shorts ground her — vaguely. A nod to tactility in a world that prefers suggestion.

The screen flickers. No signal. That’s how she feels most days.

She doesn’t pack to leave; she dresses to disappear. But today, there is no train to miss. No voiceover. Just the dull electric ache of remembering too vividly.

The television isn’t retro. It’s her only mirror. She stares into it like it might finally say something true.

The screen doesn’t pretend to understand her — and that honesty is more than most have offered.

Material- digitally printed chiffon