With a bitter sweet smile, radiating with pain, plastered onto my lips, I continued reading the entries I had written in the diary. I remember the time when his face used to light up with smiles whenever I entered any room he was in, knowing that if we cross paths some day during the present time, he would walk past me as if we never had a past. I knew that even if I stand in front of him, he would see right through me as if he had not once promised to love me always— day and night. His love had faded like the shadow of a ship which slowly, yet surely moved further and further away into the horizon.
As I held onto the traces of the feeling of his touch, his warmth around my fingers, I thought of nothing as I remembered the guy I had fallen in love with— a sweet guy who fought with his own battles inside him, who smiled in a way which was enough to light up my entire world, who used to look at me like no one mattered to him apart from me, who cried for my safety and who cried due to the sweet nothings that were whispered to him by me. I miss him, though I know he will never be mine again. I miss him, though I know that π is never equal to 3.14. I miss him, though I know that two tangents which meet once, will never meet again. I miss him, though I know that I will never again get the same person back. I miss him, and I know that I don't miss the person he has become, but the sweet and respectful boy I had fallen in love with just a few years back.
As I turn from page to page in my diary, all I see are the short poetries, poems, letters and paragraphs which I had written for him, but never got to express them to him. My hands shook as I remembered the way he used to look at me, the way his eyes would search for mine in every room he steps foot into before everything broke into a millions shards like broken glass.
As I close my eyes, I see myself telling him about a traumatic past of mine. Traumatic past. The day I was almost assaulted inappropriately by a person triple my age when I was just ten years old. Till date, I could feel his hands roaming around on my body, his rough hands keeping me from moving as his fingers muffled my cries. The experience of that almost sexual assault was embedded in my mind and had rendered me speechless for a couple of years. No one knew what had happened to me that day, all because I was too scared and afraid to actually explain the stuff whose wordings I had not coined then. I could not tell anyone about what had happened that day, and he was the first one who I had shared that to. But, I still think that I was wrong. I saw myself explaining that incident to him as he stared blankly, not at me, but at the black board of our class room. Completely unbothered and unattentive, I silenced down, not completely the explanation of the entire incident and he— he remained silent, by choice not by shock. He did not even notice that I had stopped talking. I felt unheard and as if I was being taken for granted. My eyes got filled with tears to the brim, but I had held myself back from crying. It hurt, because just four months ago, he had given me a poem which stated that I smiled like sunshine through rain.
Why didn't you notice when the light of the sun dimmed?
The sweet promises to always be the listener if I was the one who was speaking, the soft whispers to always stay attentive and comfort me any time my smile faded, were they all just lies, Arth? Because whenever we talked on call, you never gave any attention to my words. You always waited for me to stop talking so that you could narrate about similar incidents. Why couldn't you console me when I was hurt? Why did you ignore the sound of my short and quick breaths as I muffled my sobs when we were on call? Why did you disregard the fact that I experienced a panic attack and was crying while it felt like it was my last day on earth?
I had always loved those kind of songs which had some meaning in their lyrics. I always adored old songs, meaningful songs, romantic songs which were written with a clear intention of what was to be expressed. Yet now a days, I do not listen to some of the singers whose songs I used to love. But why? Did something big issue happened due to which I stopped listening to those singers? Or did some small yet powerful hate of a person made me stop listening to those songs? I remember sending him a reel where the singer was singing a song whose lyrics felt very familiar to the words I have always wanted to dedicate to him. I remember smiling and blushing as I imagined his reaction upon viewing and listening to the song— happy, shy and joyful. But things went down hill. His text still echoes in my mind like a haunted shadow,
"As soon as I saw this reel, I clicked on not interested."
I remember the way my smile had vanished from my lips. Our music tastes were and still are polar opposites I know, but I listened to the type of songs that he liked and I hated, the ones without any meaning and clear intentions. I listened to them just to make him happy, why could he not the same the other way around?
I have always loved wearing baggy clothes— baggy jeans and oversized t-shirts. I remember that one day he had asked me,
"Tumhe woh dressing sense achha lagta hai?" (You like that dressing sense)
The innocent and so in love mind of mine thought that his question was genuine and that he was asking me something after I didn't even know how long. I lit up like child in the morning of Christmas, and sat up straight as I typed a long,
"Yessssssssss."
After sending that, my fingers were slipping from one key to another on the keyboard of my phone as I was typing another response,
'Aapko pata hai na, they are so comfy comfy and pehenne ke liye kuchh inappropriate bhi nahi—." (You know right how comfortable they are, including that they are not inappropriate to wear as well—)
"How can you even like that??!"
Came his reply. My fingers frozen on the screen of my phone upon reading the text.
I forced my eyes open in the present time and the pain that was prevailing in my heart did not feel unfamiliar at all. I had experienced that same pain over and over again with people I had adored more than my own life. His love and his acceptance had lost their colour even before I had decided to end things with a lie, just like the rose he had once gifted me.
Like the same bright, red rose which withered and wilted before its end actually took form.