The problem with her was that her fellow friends, female or male, never realised the importance of her company. But when she was gone, they missed her, and missed her badly. She was adept in filling the gaps in their discussion, the void in their laughter and even the vacuum in their silence. Her presence was negligible but her absence was huge.
He, who was no different than her friends, could not recognize the beauty of her presence but was bulldozed under her absence. He missed her and missed her much more than loved her. Probably missing someone should be at a higher pedestal than loving the same someone.
It was last time he was meeting her, unaware of the transience of their liaison. But she was aware of it, because she knew that she could never hate him. She still loved him, until she figured out that it hurt a lot less to just not care.
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PS: I know the above piece is random and incomplete, but I sat for 3 hours thinking wat to write further but could not think of anything. So I decided to finally publish it considering my absence from this writing world for so long. May be its just the Delhi airspace which hit my writings barren or may be its best to end it this way.
Dear friend,
I had always liked to tell myself that you were something abstract, a legend and a myth, but now I knew that behind the poetry of these words hid an entirely unpoetic truth: that I didn’t know you; that I didn’t know you as you really were, as you were in and to yourself. I had been able to perceive (in my youthful egocentricity) only those aspects of your being that were turned directly to me (to my loneliness, my captivity, my yearning for tenderness and affection); you had been nothing to me but a function of my own situation; everything that went beyond that concrete situation, everything that you were in yourself, had escaped me.
-mE (inspired by Milan Kundera)
