"How have you been? Was it too hard?"
No, the day he left I went to a pub with a friend and got sloshed with her. Told her about the breakup and didn’t cry. Told her how I am going to miss him. But I didn’t cry. Told me.
It was only when I realized that he would never call or text. That our story had too much rust in it that was the day I cried. I cried so much that I felt sad about my own wounds. Every time that I went to a market and heard our song I tried shutting my ears. His memories take away my peace now. Parts of him have become like a flashback to me. I don’t cry anymore. Memories are weird. They make you smile and cry at the same time. The good memories will make you smile and the bad ones will stay till you die. I have counted days and even months till I have realized that I had been waiting for nothing. Love is not easy. It is sad and mostly messy.
It's been a year now. Haircuts, solo trips, going for therapy, and hating you- nothing worked because we do not realize that when people leave we do not stop loving them.
I have promised myself that I won't write about you because like those unwrapped cigarettes that are kept in my drawer or that unfinished poetry. I think certain things are best when they are kept untouched. I would rather let them burn in my own flame. So, when you left I started pretending that you never existed.
After you left, mother wept quietly at my bedside. The cold towel pressed in my forehead and a whispered prayer. Her tears could not wash away mine.
I had been screaming and slamming on people. You know at times when you want to choose death and walk away from every damn person who wants to show you logic?
My sufferings were audible to my own ears. For months, I have tried to find a map to heal my wounds. The doctors attached a new name to the disease yet music saved me when nothing else could.
My ruins taught me how to laugh and I found myself midway through those unsipped coffees and unread texts. I had jars and jars of chocolates and then vomited it all so that I could lend happiness all at once.
My morbidity looked like a novel. Unread and blank. I was trapped in a dungeon for months and when I finally wanted to escape. My nightmares escaped with me.
So years later, when you said how I have changed. I wanted to slam you against the door and scream at you and tell you that nobody who has gone through hell returns looking like an angel. But instead, I smile and leave.
I have finally learned from you this convenient habit of leaving without an answer.
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About the Author
Poonam Chatterjee is a 26-year-old budding author, pet lover, and foodie. From a tender age of ten, she found her calling in the written word and since then, has been scribbling away her unconventional ideas, sometimes in the last pages of notebooks and sometimes on online blogs. Writing gives her happiness like no other thing.