Fiction #1

Okay. Aviators, check. Messed up hairs, check. Smile that makes me go ‘Oh my effing Gawd!’, check. And we spread newspapers in the railway station platform and sat right there. He blabbered on about how I could do this, do that, study this and become that, study that and become this. But in reality, I wanted to be exactly who I was at that time, because he flew all the way to see me, just the way I was : thin, tanned, petite and hard headed.  As much as I tried to understand him and our relationship over these months, I just couldn’t. I couldn’t give a name to him, couldn’t put a tag on us. I couldn’t call it love, definitely.  How could I be sure of him if I wasn’t even sure of myself? Loving him was impossible. Even if I did, it was impossible.

Though I prayed with whatever heart I had left for his train to never arrive, it did arrive and all I can remember now is me fighting the urge to cry and fighting the urge to hug him tight. Scream my lungs out, ‘I love you! Are you blind? I am fuckingly in love and I fucking cant do a thing about it. Stay, because I’m in love with you!’

But all I could do was sheepishly wave goodbye and watch him disappear into the fog, left with a overwhelming sense of sadness, love, guilt, pain and longings I can’t describe.  All the memories I have of him always ends with me left behind in an airport, in a railway station, in a metro station. He never stays.  Sometimes I feel like an old petrol pump in the middle of nowhere, and about whom nobody cares until they run out of fuel. And even after that they always leave. Always.
And I know I’m trying to put together a map, the map that leads to him. Trace his footsteps and follow, until we meet at a place where he never leaves.  But the map has jagged ends, torn parts and incomplete ladders. Damn!

I wish I could go back and never know what the fuck in this world love and its complications are.