Stories we will never tell - Picture Perfect

As he stared at the picture hanging on the wall, his mind drifted into a distant void - recollecting events from a life he no longer lived. Remembering times from a past life, a life he didn’t feel was his. And slowly, as always, he was reminded of her. 

Her memories had increasingly started existing only in photo frames. The picture was on the wall for a very long time, hanging lifelessly, slowly collecting dust and a few cobwebs starting to appear near the edges.

He thought of all the good times, all the laughter. And it made him sad. Then he remembered why they were not together - because of him. He remembered her words. And they cut into his heart.

He had clicked her photo when she wasn’t looking, as she laughed and her dimples showed. She was driving and looked straight ahead, her hair was slightly messy but her eyes sparkled with delight.

He was why she existed only in photo frames. No more kisses on foreheads, no more blushed red cheeks. No more holding hands, no more full hearted hugs.

The photograph captured a moment in time when everything was perfect. A time when they, together, discovered happiness. A time when nothing else mattered. A time he held on to and a time he hoped yearned would return. Now all that remained was her dust covered photograph and in it, his long forgotten happiness.

Stories we will never tell - Catch 22

She was standing in the kitchen looking out into the garden. She was contemplating, thinking, and reminiscing …life. Her eyes had a lot of sorrow to share but she masked them with glasses. She hardly let any emotion describe her serene face. Although with a closer observation you could faintly realize that she was dejected.

The kitchen was crowded with crockery. It somehow reflected her own state of mind – congested but not messy. The dishes were all over the place but she knew where exactly each and every thing was.

He was sitting on the small dining table right across from where she was standing. He looked up at her and then stared back into his computer and struck off the last few lines he had written which he thought made no sense. He was writing about what she would be feeling at that exact instant, and if she knew what he was writing, she would most probably have agreed.

And even though both of them were in the same room and shared the same space, she hardly acknowledged his existence. She moved around like he didn’t exist. She sat right in front of him and was having her dinner but never looked at him. He was confused. He was concerned about her and she acted as if she didn’t care and she barely let her feelings out. He didn’t know what she felt about him. He was very confused,

He knew that his life was in disarray, and though he couldn’t afford the luxury of where he was at present, he was more concerned about her than himself. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to be happy so he could seek solace in her happiness. He wondered if she would ever know that.

She finally spoke to him, and asked him if he wanted anything. He wondered if she really spoke to him or he was hallucinating. He wished he never knew her but then quickly altered his wish to wanting to meet her before he actually did. He knew that he could have made her happy if he met her earlier but circumstances dictated terms differently and she was now just a dark and sad shadow of her original self.

She asked him again, this time he looked at her, slowly smiled and shook his head sideways. She stood up and began to leave. He wanted to say something, but his inhibitions got the better of him and he remained silent. He would be leaving in a few days and thought that she would not matter too much to him anymore once he left.

Which he knew was a lie.

Because deep in his dejected heart he knew that her happiness would make him feel better and make him comfortable. He wished he could rewrite her life differently. He wished he could make amends for her happiness’ sake. He wished he could apologize on behalf of fate for playing such dirty tricks on her. He wished time healed her wounds and removed the scars.

He wondered why she doesn’t share her sorrows. She wondered why he never asks her about her grief.

Content

How could he desire the world,

When she simply was enough.

How could he still write poems,

When she herself was poetry.

- Sir Adam Atriy, Myriad Tiaras Vol. 8