In the span of four years, I lost two friends.
Not just friends—anchors, protectors, the kind of men who filled a room with laughter and made you feel that nothing could go wrong as long as they were around.

Som… and now Piyush.

And somewhere between their laughter and their silence, I am left with one haunting question—
why do men slowly walk into a darkness they know they cannot come back from?

Som was not just a friend. He was that rare energy—subtle, vibrant, amazing observer. The kind of person who didn’t just enter your life, he took silent presence in it.

In our twenties, when the world felt uncertain and messy, Som was certainty, he was the one who got the Job done, in his field of work he was a team lead who could get any impossible task done in insane timelines.
He was the one planning nights out, dragging us to pubs, making sure everyone was included, everyone was laughing, everyone was safe.

And for me, he was big bro.

He used to call me “Cheethi… tum hi ho.”
(you are the …..tigeress)

Those words were not casual. They were strength.
On days when I doubted myself, when life felt heavier than I could carry, those words would echo inside me—and I would stand up again.

That was Som, he gave strength to others like it was his second nature.

But there was something he never gave—his own pain.

Whenever his personal life fell apart, he disappeared…. not physically but emotionally.
He would go silent & withdraw, he used to build walls so strong that not even the people who loved him the most could reach him.

And slowly, alcohol became his language.

At first, it was just part of the fun—the same pub nights, the same laughter.
Then it became a habit.
Then a dependency.
And before we could even understand what was happening—it became survival for him.

He was rehabilitated…. he tried, I know he really tried.

But loneliness…
And betrayal…
Especially from people he trusted deeply…

They broke something inside him that no medicine could fix.

The last time I spoke to him was just a few weeks before he was admitted for liver failure, and then, one by one, his organs gave up.

And just like that…
A man who once held everyone together…
Vanished into silence.

And now, years later, I see the same story unfolding again.

Piyush…..

A completely different personality, yet painfully similar at the core.

He was a go-getter, driven and warm , generous to a fault.
The kind of friend who didn’t just care—he felt deeply.

“Jaan chidkta tha doston par.”
He loved his friends fiercely.

But his love had a language…

“Ek aur bhai.”
“Mere liye nahin piyega?”
“Apni yaari ke naam.”
“Aaj full raat party karenge.”

What starts as bonding… slowly becomes expectation.
What starts as celebration… slowly becomes compulsion.

And somewhere along the way, drinking stops being about joy…
and starts becoming about proving love, loyalty, belonging.

And that’s where the trap begins.

Why does this happen?

Why do men—especially strong, intelligent, emotionally aware men—fall into this pattern?

These were not careless people.
They were wise, they guided others and they knew right from wrong.

So why couldn’t they choose right for themselves?

Because somewhere, men are taught one dangerous lesson:

“Be strong. But don’t feel too much.”

They are allowed to provide, protect, perform…
But not to break.

A married man, especially, carries invisible layers of pressure:

• Be financially stable
• Be emotionally stable
• Be dependable
• Be the problem-solver
• Never be the problem

And when life doesn’t go as planned—when relationships fail, when trust is broken, when career feels shaky—

Where does he go?

Who does he talk to?

Who is his safe space?

On the other hand women are taught to express.
To cry, to vent, to shout, to show tantrums and to lean on……

Men are taught to contain.

So they build friendships around activity—sports, work, drinking.
Not vulnerability.

A man can say “tu mera bhai hai” a hundred times…
But may never say, “mujhe darr lag raha hai.”

And that’s the tragedy.

Because alcohol becomes the only place where emotions are allowed to leak.

One drink… loosens the guard.
Two drinks… soften the pain.
Three drinks… silence the mind. And slowly, the body becomes the battleground for emotions that were never expressed

What I felt is addiction is not about alcohol

It is about:

• Unprocessed heartbreak
• Betrayal that was never spoken about
• Expectations they couldn’t meet
• Failures they couldn’t accept
• Loneliness they couldn’t admit

Alcohol is just the outlet. The real problem is emotional isolation

There is always a moment—
a subtle shift—
where control becomes dependency.

The body says, “enough.”
The mind whispers, “stop.”

But the heart says,
“just one more… maybe this will make it better.”

And that “one more” becomes a pattern.

And then a need, and then… a point of no return

What breaks me the most is this—

They knew what was right for everyone around them.

Som protected us from bad choices.
Piyush gave love without conditions.

So why couldn’t they do the same for themselves?

Why couldn’t they listen to their own voice?

Or maybe…

They couldn’t hear it anymore.

Because it was buried under years of silence.

For Those Left Behind

We often ask ourselves—
Did we do enough? Could we have saved them?

And that guilt stays.

But maybe the better question is—

How do we ensure we don’t lose another Som… another Piyush?

By changing how we listen.
By changing how we love.
By creating spaces where silence is not the only option.

Because sometimes, the strongest people we know…
are the ones fighting the quietest battles.