This year’s love

It is funny how we pick up little habits from those we adore, consciously or unconsciously, and somehow they become part of ourselves. They feel so natural as if they were resting all this time just to surface like a small, lost shell that breathes in light when the force of waves pushes the sand away. Those habits feel homelike. Those people feel homelike. And that is why the fear of losing them causes mind to run riot. It is not the inability of the mind to accept the change but the inexpressibility of the heart to seek comfort elsewhere. I am amazed by how we effortlessly fall in love with their little things like the sound of their laughter or the way their smile forms, the silly banter, the spontaneous nature of their mind or how carefree they move about. Or how we love to know the bits and pieces about them; the ones that are important, or nonsensical, or crazy, or deep, or humorous, or playful, or silly.

This is a story- one sided- not because it was meant to be written like this but because the other never really existed in it. It is one of those stories which causes you to furrow your eyebrows and produces a sense of ridicule. It is a story where she wishes to have met them differently, in all the possibilities she didn’t get, where the other knew her feelings and reciprocated, where she was someone to them, where things were less complicated, where distances were less. A story to tell to someone after they had gone. One which she could reminisce and play with in her head or which made her happy at odd hours. She wanted to have conversations, she wanted to make memories. Maybe that way the other would feel more real to her than the one in her head. A story to live for. A story hers to claim.

This is one of those stories where you get tired of the protagonist’s incompetency to understand a simple thing. The one where you slam the book shut and leave. This is a story where conversations were tucked safely in a journal inside the drawer; for it was the only place it knew to live; where words were spoken, feelings were developed, hands were held, kisses were shared, secrets revealed and secrets blossomed. A story only whispered at night. A story only named by her. A story with no witnesses. She wanted to stop but she couldn’t. She wanted it all to happen but it didn’t. She wanted to tell them that she missed them but she knew it would not change anything so she kept pretending that she didn’t. A story, so fragile it only spoke to sheets of white; far away from them to hear. A story which was hidden, obscure and forgotten.