I was drunk in love, tripping on fingers entangled together, drugged on kisses, sloshed in lust.
So, when in no time came our time to part, though temporarily, at least that's what it looked like, we were hardly ready.
It was pre-Christmas and I had to leave for home to attend my family, he had to leave for his home, too. And our homes, funnily were miles apart.
I usually used to bring this in our conversations how our families will never even be able to communicate with each other if they were to talk only in their own dialect.
And he’d reply, it had never been about the conversations, it has always been about the silence.
And I’d frown at him for disturbingly philosophical all the time, which he would dilute in no time with his smile.
Anyway, it was Christmas, and we were parting in Santiniketan railway station. He came to see me off, and I stood infront of the door, while he stood on the platform.
Weirdly, when the train picked up speed, we both mouthed 'I love you' at the same time.
And then he started getting tiny with distance and home started getting closer.
I didn't know if it implied something but few days from then, we were not two people in love, anymore.
Long distance seemed to not work for us.
What started with missing each other took terrible forms by the end of the night. What used to be healthy debates earlier became arguments in loud voices. What used to be making fun of each other became taken as offence. What used to look like love was outgrown by insecurities.
And I clearly remember my intuition whispering me to let go; to cut the string than stretch it and let it tear itself.
But I was still in the hangover of that short-lived, raw, form of love.
Phonecalls started getting less, texts started getting shorter, video calls became extinct, and it was hurting no less.
And I thought to myself that maybe this was it, this love was short lived but it wasn't like it was not love.
We had just spent eighteen days together and felt so strongly, and I knew I had to get it off my chest.
That's when I took to blogging, because when I used to be a kid and I used to be sad, my father used to pat my back and tell me, 'write it out’.
And I realized, more than a lover, I have a story and a muse.
So, when in no time came our time to part, though temporarily, at least that's what it looked like, we were hardly ready.
It was pre-Christmas and I had to leave for home to attend my family, he had to leave for his home, too. And our homes, funnily were miles apart.
I usually used to bring this in our conversations how our families will never even be able to communicate with each other if they were to talk only in their own dialect.
And he’d reply, it had never been about the conversations, it has always been about the silence.
And I’d frown at him for disturbingly philosophical all the time, which he would dilute in no time with his smile.
Anyway, it was Christmas, and we were parting in Santiniketan railway station. He came to see me off, and I stood infront of the door, while he stood on the platform.
Weirdly, when the train picked up speed, we both mouthed 'I love you' at the same time.
And then he started getting tiny with distance and home started getting closer.
I didn't know if it implied something but few days from then, we were not two people in love, anymore.
Long distance seemed to not work for us.
What started with missing each other took terrible forms by the end of the night. What used to be healthy debates earlier became arguments in loud voices. What used to be making fun of each other became taken as offence. What used to look like love was outgrown by insecurities.
And I clearly remember my intuition whispering me to let go; to cut the string than stretch it and let it tear itself.
But I was still in the hangover of that short-lived, raw, form of love.
Phonecalls started getting less, texts started getting shorter, video calls became extinct, and it was hurting no less.
And I thought to myself that maybe this was it, this love was short lived but it wasn't like it was not love.
We had just spent eighteen days together and felt so strongly, and I knew I had to get it off my chest.
That's when I took to blogging, because when I used to be a kid and I used to be sad, my father used to pat my back and tell me, 'write it out’.
And I realized, more than a lover, I have a story and a muse.
To be continued...
