Desolation. Pain. Betrayal. Loneliness. Tomato Tomato. Sometimes a blur, sometimes brighter than the sunlight, searing into my skin.
A conundrum. The perks of being a journalist to being a writer first, ready to converse, share and confide. And then the remnants of love, found and lost. Mostly memories, the guy who grabbed you in the middle of a staircase and kissed you, first scaring you and then making you unimaginably emotional.
An emotional breakdown. The feeling of his skin on mine. Warm and comforting. A difficult day in office. And then a brilliant book. Seeing his forever contemplating face on my computer screen, a subtle sense of reassurance.
A futile attempt to join the gym. His laughter. His words, "I'll love you even when you're fat." Irritation mixed with despair, both of which, never get the better of me.
I want to write a book one day. But stories feel forever evasive. My ten year old brother finishes the fifth Harry potter book in a day. I have tears in my eyes.
My last vacation was a year and a half back. I miss home, a sense of belonging which feels so damn far. And also, of late, a strange boy with a strange name, who is always willing to make amends, "no matter how tumultuous times may be."