The wait was killing him. Drenched in perspiration he went through his plan again. Blood red flowers, heart-shaped printed confetti, the gift packed in black. His white shirt and acid washed black jeans. His eyes ,glittering brown with hope, love and unapologetic tears. He waited patiently, with bated breath. He never took his eyes off the entrance, lest he missed her surprise appearance. But she did not. of course she texted him. She congratulated him, she was happy for him. He went back, heartbroken, still wishing that she would turn-up unannounced. Maybe she was lurking in the parking area, ready to pounce and hug the life out of him. But she wasn’t; she was with her friends, some bleak kilometers away. Happy and celebrating the end of the year.
Something snapped that day. None of them could grasp the importance of such a rift. He wanted to hold on to the thread which bounded them together; the thread of memories. They shared a history – of jokes, happiness; of fights which gave way to ego clashes and cold wars. But eventually everything subsided and they solved their differences. But they forgot one simple life-altering fact. Memories are made every single minute. New threads of memories develop. You fall back on the strongest thread for support.
She was the hand-loom of these threads. Wherever she went, she touched the lives of people, formed bonds and created memories. She was not constricted within her intimate group, being a free-spirited human; she blinded others with her sheer brilliance. Her vitality and fun outlook at life attracted friends and well-wishers.
Yes he did matter to her. He was there at times when she needed him the most. But she unwillingly and unconsciously pushed him farther and farther till the thread snapped yet again. This time, he did not have the heart to hold on.
He stood where he always did. Right outside. To tend to her whenever she needed him. In the beginning he sensed all her problems, her anxieties but over time their gap in communication altered his sixth sense.
She gradually built up walls around her. Her space. Concrete with threads of memory. “glasswalls” as he called them.
“I stand outside the room where the walls are made of crystal-clear glass. I could see through it. I saw her and him. Alone. Sometimes with others. They laugh ,they cry. I am not invited. I stay put. I just stand outside and watch. She doesn’t know I can see what’s happening. I cannot search for another because I seek no one but her. I cannot leave her side because my conscience would never allow me such an act. I cannot forcefully enter because that is just not what I do. I just wait for something to happen.
For her to come and call me in.
For her to leave them for me.
For her to come and tell me that it is over. ”
There will be unanswered questions, unshed tears, unspoken arguments. But till then, he will wait. He doesn’t even flinch when her hateful words or sometimes the lack of it pierces his skin like a million splinters. He has grown accustomed to her. He has adapted.
He waits for her to come around. She opens herself up in his arms, embraces hush the silences away. Her walls crumble, they vanish altogether when they are together. But that is limited and rare. He has learned to cherish those moments. He still waits.
He knows she has others waiting for her. But none of them sees the walls of glass. All they see are concrete walls. He sees through them, the walls because he knows her, or he thinks he does.
thewriterblue 