Unconditional love

She missed him so much it hurt. For her, he was hope, love, happiness and courage. She did not know how they were related and she wanted it to be the same way. It hardly mattered because she loved him and that was enough.

No, they were not dating each other. He was an important part of his life. Maybe he was her best friend, father figure, confidant or all of these. She trusted him. She liked being around him; he was her only shade in a sunny land. He hadn’t been around for ten days and she waited for him to return desperately.

She would often go to meet him. They would laugh and joke. He would know when she felt low. He always asked her to express her feelings. He would always listen. There was something magnetic about his personality- everyone would be dazzled by his aura. But he was different. He would never give in to flattery. He had a knack to know people for what they were. He also knew how much she liked him. He had his own indirect ways of expressing his affection.

Over time, she felt she had developed a special connection with him. Coincidentally, they would bump into each other at some random place. Those were the moments she wouldn’t know how to react. Once he asked her why she looked so happy. She innocently told him that it was because she met him so unexpectedly. He would smile and go ahead on his way. She would then recount the tale to her diary. She wanted nothing from him. As far as he smiled to her and met her frequently, she was the most contented person on the planet.

His opinions and ideas mattered a lot to her. He had made her quite strong and confident. He advised her because he was concerned about her. She too tried to make him proud. He rarely asked her for help; but when he did, she would do anything to help him out. At the end of the day, they knew they were like best friends who can always count upon each other. They teased and taunted each other but could also be serious when it was required. They understood each other well. She couldn’t be at peace when he looked worried, troubled or tired. They cared a lot for one another.

His replies to her texts made her happy. All she wanted was to see his smile once a day. She would feel incomplete on the days they would not meet. She would stalk his Facebook profile or stare at his pictures, in the hope that she’d see him again soon. She was young, at the threshold of her lovely days of youth. She often wrote to him despite knowing that he would never reply. He had a complex persona. She was a waterfall overflowing with love; he was a tap giving only as much water as needed, sometimes less but quenching thirst like no other. She was the sky; he was the full moon that alone mattered on a dark night.

She loved him for what he was and what he did to her- he taught her to survive when she felt there was no sign of life. When she was with him, she knew she needed nobody else. Perhaps she was crazy to waste her time behind someone who was more or less the same to everyone dear to him. At the moment, she didn’t bother. She was happy and the memories she shared with him, infinite.


Diminutive diaries- Hero

“You are my first love and you shall always be my hero. You may be wounded in war, but I know you shall rise again and rejoin the battle.”, she said.

“Yes, my little child, I will”, he uttered and kissed her forehead, a father of a girl of ten.

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She knows she can cross oceans with her hero by her side.

Old dresses

With a heavy heart, she held the black shirt for one last time. Its smooth fabric, fine print and the angelic look it gave her when it adorned her slim body. She saw it, apparently for the last time. She knelt and kept it in the box that was meant for donations to the poor. She turned away and walked back to her room.

The shirt was a piece of not only cloth but also her soul. That was one of her lover’s most favourite shirts. He complimented her day and night whenever she wore it. Somewhere, their love blossomed from that shirt. She fell into a trance, recalling the memories attached to the dress that was now gone.

It began two and a half years back. He texted her, “You looked beautiful, amazing and hot in that black shirt.” The lucidity melted her. She wore it quite often. Whenever she did, he could not stop staring her. He’d simply open her tied hair and ask her to smile. That was the magic of the shirt.

A week before his birthday, they celebrated Beautiful Black Day when they both wore black shirts.

Few months later, at a time when he’d lost all hope, she’d hugged him for the very first time- as though the shirt transmitted all her hope to him. He felt better.

Almost six months later, the day she’d worn this shirt, they shared their first kiss. Amateur, yet so perfect. Clean. Smooth.

Whenever she wore it, she could not stop missing him. It was agonizing in a way and pleasing in another.

It was gone now, leaving behind some of her most secret memories. Neither the memories nor the days would return.

She returned to her wardrobe. On top of her pile of clothes, lay neatly folded a top, pink with polka dots. She froze for a moment. This was the dress she wore the day they confessed their love to each other for the very first time. She had also worn this dress during one of their most intimate encounters.

She took it out and folded it. She turned towards the door. She had barely walked a few steps when she retreated. She could not muster the courage to part from it. Once again, she folded it and put it in her bag. She would carry it home and treasure it forever, never bringing it back to this madhouse.