To life, love and everything magical!🦋

It is 3 a.m. I am wide awake, staring at my computer screen with my palms
resting on the keyboard. Earlier that evening, I had finally made a
resolution and decided to act on it the very next day. But after tossing and
turning in my lonely bed for a couple of hours, I chose to start writing this
book right away.
Now I am sitting at my desk next to my bed, and I am trying hard to
think of the point where it all began. When I was not thinking of writing
the book, this story was all that I could think of, all that I could imagine
and dream about. And now it is all gone as if those memories never
existed, as if all of it had never happened. With a blank mind, I hear the only noise in the room: the sound of stillness.
My first task is to try and put my finger on the starting point of our
story. After spending more than a few hours and struggling to determine
the beginning—the time when it all started—it struck me. There never was a starting point after all!
Slowly, I begin to type, and gradually my speed picks up. I have only one
purpose; that is, to be able to do justice to our love story which, like most
love stories, is woven beautifully with delicate threads of love, desire,
intimacy, fear, possessiveness, assurance, longing and unexpected events.
So I begin . . .

Sometimes I still find the odd strand of your hair in my room, but more
often clinging to my clothes as a reminder of our time together. The earring that you had lost one rainy night after it was entangled in the button of my shirt, I found it yesterday under my bed, a little twisted because of all the force you had put in trying to get away from me, in vain.
The pair of white teddy bears that you had got for me after our last fight still sits on my study table, blaming me for what I had done. Almost every day I find these memories of yours, lost in my room, scattered around me
like a web that won’t let me come out of the past. Not that I want to, I am
happier living caved under these beautiful memories than face the ugly
present.
These random things that I find everywhere transport me back into our once beautiful and perfect world—the world before we started fighting, the world before I started ignoring you, the world before I stopped saying,
‘I love you’, the world before ego crawled between us, and our world
before last August.
Now that you are gone, on lonely nights I play your favourite songs—old Bollywood numbers. These songs remind me of your glowing face, and that pure, playful and infectious smile of yours that I miss the most. I sit all night and listen to those songs, staring at the empty walls in my bedroom which were once filled with your pictures. Sometimes, I walk up to the window to witness the busy lives of people who are lucky to be with
people they love. The winds which once played with your beautiful hair, turn their back on me in disappointment every time they find me standing alone at the window, preoccupied with gloom.