Lost cause: Stories of heart

photo courtesy: Whi (the blog is copyright protected)

It could have been me. It could have been you. It could have been us. Only if you weren’t so nonchalant about me, about us, about the miles of distance in between us. With phone calls, emails and romanticising postcards, we could have made it through. But you’ve always chosen the easier way, since school.

I saw him through the window, across the road, standing tall but in a manner of ease like he always did, waiting patiently for something. Someone, even? I watched him stand, the sun kissed face enveloped in all eternities of ruffled hair, eyes gleaming behind the light aviator shades with a hidden smile as he reached for his phone into his pocket. One look into the screen and there it was, the smile. The very smile that brightened up my day and my gloom. The thing about his smile is, all the cliches compartmentalised into a single cabinet would not suffice enough to express all the romantic feelings I had towards him, and in all particularity, that drop of a breath smile. The smile that held my heart! The smile that brought warmth from within exploding in all possible hues of purple and pink. That smile was wrapped in all essence of everything sugar and sweet. Oh! the diabetic heart of mine, that fell for that smile! After all these years, my soul still fluttered with all senses of emotions I was capable of feeling.

Before I could register the feelings – the warmth, the skip of a beat, the drop of the heart, wobbling knees (that is, while sitting down) and all other corroborative emotions, he stretched his arms in front of him, still smiling, but the smile portrayed more of a gladness than just warmth, this time. In a split second not only his hands but his body was enveloped by another – smiling, hair twirling in the air and I could hear the laughter from across the street, through the glassed window of the bakery.

In the tint of warm orange during the magic hour time of sunset, there they were, two souls curating romantic love with portrayal of everything blissful and happy. Hair twirling in the air, hands entwined, love in their eyes and smiles of promising golden rings in their fingers. I saw her. I saw him with her, his wife.

At in that moment, I could not have felt any more of a lost cause than I ever did before.

That was the last time I saw him. For that matter ‘of him’ too. This was the May of 2013 – the beginning of the worst seventeen months of my life. The worst, not because he married but because I did and of the events that followed therein.


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