The only thing visible in the room was her face; glowing in the screen light of her laptop. Sitting stock-still, holding her breath, probably reading something. Squeezing her eyes after every couple of seconds to avoid blurriness her tears were creating. Scrolling up and down reading with weary, yet insomniac eyes, reading each and every word, she was feeling every single feeling that night.
She closed the lid, and moved to the bed with trembling legs; burdened by her own agitation. Her heart was fatigued with unknown fears, and mind was numb with the clump of thoughts
“What if every word he ever wrote was for me? What if I were the one he thinks about when writing?”
The night, like every other night of the past 2 years, was hard to breathe. With all heavy eyelids she was lying in the bed, thinking of how she was losing him with every passing breath.
As soon as the sight blurred, she felt something. A touch on her waist, softer than a new born’s skin, a waft near her ear causing goosebumps. She turned back and all she could see were two eyes; his eyes; as dead as hers. The grasp on her waist was hard now. He rubbed his hard cheek against her rosy cheek to wipe away the tear drop. The grasp, now, was harder. His every warm breath was curing her slashed soul. She was trying hard to forcefully open her loaded eyes, but he shut them with a gentle kiss.
“But…who are you?”*
The heaviness was not there in her eyes anymore. She opened them in the sun rays touching her tenderly. Everything was smooth now. The wounds seemed to heal. As if someone sucked all her torment off; she felt no agony in her. And wait, she was not amazed. Perhaps, she remembered nothing but the last whisper.