Whenever I try to write something about you, I fail. You are not my ex. You are not my friend. You are a heartbreak that I never allow to heal. You've been special that way ever since I met you. Remember the first online chat we had. With our fake profile pictures, quirky usernames, we were trying to hide our real identity. Fortunately, our true-selves were reflected in the short sarcastic sentences we typed. I knew, you were my type! However, I was not. And that makes me curse the destiny. Why God, why?
You were the missing piece that fitted perfectly with the jarred edges of my heart. I wanted our relationship to grow. It grew too. We had a label-less relation. We could tell everything to each other. We could go missing from each other's lives with no explanation. We could jump in and carry on as if nothing changed. Well, nothing could change - no man was man enough to take your place in your absence! You were the only one who understood me the way I wanted. You were the only man to arouse me with short pauses on the telephone. You were the only man who was a part of my every fantasy. Actually, you still are. Twelve years and you can still rock my world with a simple reply on my Facebook status. The forlorn lover in me tries to decipher the hidden meaning of your comments. If that's insane, so be it!
I would rather live my moments of craziness than let the maturity snatch away one real happiness I have. You are the pain that brings joy. You are a joy that is a lifelong agony. You are one chapter of my life that is abridged. Abridged, not complete. So, if someone wants to write an unrequited love story, ours should be the one. Not that it would be the best. But because if being a writer, I can't write it, someone should untangle the emotions and write my love story for me. Only then, I would know - Why am I a modern day Meera?
P. S. One of my favourites. I connect with this post so much. Do you?