These days, I’m mostly thinking about what food I should order, or whether I should skip the meal altogether.
It’s been a while since I wrote anything — or, in this case, typed anything.
Life has changed. I’m not the same college kid anymore, the one who had plenty of time on his hands and could scribble every day about his love, his heartbreak, and everything that happened in between.
These days, I’m mostly thinking about what food I should order, or whether I should skip the meal altogether. Should I wash my clothes on Saturday, or is it going to rain? Is it alright to stay awake past halftime, or should I just watch the highlights tomorrow morning?
Despite all this everyday chaos of an average man in his twenties, I still think about her.
On my way to the office, on a misty Bengaluru morning, while the taxi drives past Cubbon Park at around 7:55 a.m., listening to New York Nagaram, I think about her. On the way back home after work, resting my head against the window of a white taxi, watching raindrops slowly race down the glass, feeling the cold against my forehead, ignoring my colleagues, debating what happened when RCB played CSK, and listening to Nilaave Vaa, I still think about her.
I rewatch The Office when I’m not thinking about her. It’s gotten to the point where I can almost guess the episode simply by listening to the audio. I remember asking her to watch The Office whenever she had the time. But, funnily enough, she ended up making me watch her favourite sitcom, The Good Place.
Every time I try to describe her, I realise how few words I truly know — and how few words we really have. ‘Cause even the finest synonyms and the most beautiful metaphors fall short of capturing just how divine she is.
Life has changed, yet the memories of her remain, scattered in fragments through every atom of my being. But for now, I’ll go back to my everyday life and start thinking about whether I should wash my clothes today… or whether it’s going to rain.
Will I get over it? No. But life goes on.
