It Was Always Him

I tried holding my breath – careful not to disturb his slumber. Both of us were extremely exhausted from all the day’s work. We weren’t the only two assigned to this project but in that moment, nobody else mattered. I knew about his insomnia, the very first thing I learned about him. For this guy to sleep soundly in my presence – shedding all the pretenses on the world made me feel… different.

He wasn’t the most beautiful creation of God neither was I in the most comfortable position to be lying down. This calmness running through me, while I studied his face, was enough to keep me quiet even through the physical discomfort I felt.

All of his features were elongated; tad longer than what the world is usually accustomed to. His carefully styled hair. Not a single strand of his hair was out of place and it was when he was asleep! The hairs otherwise reached below his eyes but right now were pushed back with a modern yet elegant style. The strained eyebrows resembling the highest mountains of this world. I had only met him a few times but it felt like those eyebrows were forever punished for some unknown wrongdoings. I had volunteered to massage his eyebrows – a trick I learnt back in college to impress boys but it worked wonders even on worried souls looking for an escape. After what seemed like an infinity did he let all the worries go and let all his facial muscles fall into their rightful place to rest. His long eyelashes belonged only on doctored photos of supermodels on cheap housewife’s selection for magazine covers. The perfectly straight long nose and half a face covered with well kempt beard and handlebar mustache made up the rest of face.

But what stood out the most were the scars. Small scars evident of a carefree childhood and reminders of happy memories. What happened to him? Did he lose all the reasons to be happy to become the man of controlled mind? I tried to guess what different childish activities may have given him these finer details that made his face… his. The one on the nose was definitely from a football accident. Small freckle-like spots on his cheeks spoke of an awkward teenage. The one, barely visible little fully healed gash on his right eyebrow – my favorite of all – demanded kisses and love. Before I could try to go more into the making of that scar, he opened his eyes in one swift movement.

Those eyes stared at me, right into my soul. I had never felt so naked before. I wasn’t ashamed of how I felt, I felt confident. This, sudden, unfamiliar, raw feeling was something I couldn’t place. As I tried to speak I saw him slipping into his usual guarded state. His impenetrable shield was up and nothing said henceforth would reach him. The true him. Had I lost the only possible chance of knowing the real him? His lips moved calculatedly knowing full well what they were about to say. His husky, earthy voice hit my ears and in that one word I heard the universe sing: “Amber.”

Excerpt from the Book I Will Never Write

I leave the room internally upset that getting some time alone with him may not be possible. I excuse myself to change into my night cloths. Travel sickness and the stress of living in a hotel has always been bad but the butterflies in my stomach made everything bearable.

Coming back to my own room, I quickly changed into my night clothes. I was so divided whether I should go into his room. Everyone from our team was sitting there planning for the big project. I wanted to stay in my room long enough for him to call me back there but the wait was excruciating. Even in my room I could hear everyone having a good time. I made my way back to his room.

All four pairs of eyes turned to me but three of those didn’t matter. I saw him sitting on the floor with his glass of whiskey, tousled hair. He held my gaze such tenderness all I wanted to do was rip his clothes off and make love to him.

The butterflies were almost preparing to fly with me in carriage when he said my name: Amber. The sexy raspy voice was the best suit for my name.

Letter to Beloved

Dear you,

I imagine writing to you in my old age, dying, finally confessing my feelings for you and you reading my letters and crying.

But that’s not happening because I’m just 22, in the best health and I’m fairly sure you don’t feel anything for me. However, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind and believe me I tried. My daily routine somehow finds a way to remind me of you and the advancement in technology made it easy to look at your photos online.

I see how frequently you change your photo and status on Whatsapp and I imagine (wrongly) that it’s for me. That maybe you want me to message you and talk to you. I know I am wrong in thinking so.

Just today I was talking to your best friend, I glanced at his watch and it reminded me of the playful banter you and I had over your watch. The nostalgia! It seems almost unreal that less than a month ago I had found myself lying beside you and feeling…naked. I was fully clothed but for those few moments I didn’t put up a charade. I was me, I felt more connected to me than ever. And I felt so connected to another person – you.

It was almost like a Zing! But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just me.

I remember your level of ease with me. I remember you not saying anything knowing full well that laying beside you I did nothing but stare at your face. I remember you telling me you knew it even though your eyes were closed. I remember both of us disappointed to see the rest of our friends return to our room because it meant our time together alone had come to an end. I remember you mocking my fear for darkness but not once did you try to test whether I was lying!

Ah! The moment when you opened your eyes and looked at me, I didn’t feel ashamed to have been caught staring at you.

I remember tracing the lines on your rough hands. Somehow my soft hands belonged in your rough hands!

Oh darling, I miss it! I miss all of it. Please tell me it wasn’t one sided. Please tell me it wasn’t one of those times where I find myself as the one who felt more, saw more… loved more.

I cannot ever begin to describe how fondly I think about the three days I got to be with you, work with you.

I wish I wasn’t writing this letter to be never sent. I wish we were discussing those days holding hands – fingers interlaced.

I wish we were still talking.

Maybe one day I will move on, but that day isn’t today.

Till I find my happiness again,

Me.