On this day, three years back, I had made a choice. I let the man I loved go and right at that moment when he turned away saying a good bye, my heart broke and I realised I had loved him more than I had known. I also realised that the good bye came easily to him because he never really loved. He was merely in love with the idea of love. He was a heart wreck I never anticipated. I fell for words harder than I fell for him. That evening, I came back home drained of all emotions, pained by the thought of having said goodbye when I was still in love with him. I cried until my eyes were parched, screamed until my lungs hurt, and swore to forgive myself before forgiving him. It was scarring.
Twelve months later, on this very day, I was visiting an old friend in the city of dreams. I arrived at 4 AM and he being fairly new to the city himself, cruised through the roads until we managed to find our way to his place. I quickly unpacked and had breakfast with him in the huge balcony that was outlined with different plants and vines. The weather was pleasant, the sky was a greyish blue, and the sun shone from behind the clouds. We spent the day talking of the good old days, careful not to brush against each other’s heartbreaks. In the evening we stepped out to pick some groceries and wine. When we came back, I dropped lazily on the couch, while he poured us some wine. I swirled the glass and smelled it. It was good—a sure sign of a day well spent. He took the bottle and my hand and asked me to come along with him to the open terrace. We stood next to each other drinking our wine and looking at the city lights. “It’s beautiful,” I said and leaned on him. His hand found its way around my waist lightly touching my skin. I didn’t shy away and I wasn’t ashamed of it. I leaned in closer and rested my head against the warmth of his body. We stood there for hours until the bottle was empty. When the night got colder, we decided to go back into the house. Just at that moment, when our backs were facing the dimming city lights, he raised my face towards his lips and kissed me. It was warm, soft, and tasting of wine.
52 weeks later, I was sitting with a bouquet of deep red roses stuck in a glass vase that were withering away. I liked the idea of being presented with flowers but I wasn’t the kind who knew how to appreciate such niceties. And he being old school took the pleasure of sending me those flowers. Only vast deserts and seas separated us and I wished they didn’t. So I sat at my typewriter that day, typing him a letter describing in detail how I missed him. He was a government high official and I was a mad writer. No one would guess that a man who worked with the government and talked tough with the leaders of others countries could be such a romantic. But he was and only I was privy to that little detail. It was our only secret.
365 days later, here I am listening to ‘Let it go’ playing on the radio somewhere far and thinking of him, my favourite kind of love.