Whatever You Write

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
An experience...
(I'm sorry the story is not showing paragraph endings. It's because I uploaded it from my phone and the site is showing problems accepting the text.)

Submitted: June 02, 2014

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Submitted: June 02, 2014

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The craziest days of my life were zooming at me. The summers had arrived and the schools were already over- both for the year and ever. As the sun continued to increase its intensity and glowed with all its might, my life came to a halt which constantly turned unbearable. The routine had also acquired a cheap shape as a result of careful carving of years. Since at least the final quarter of the previous year, I had devastated my schedule. In fact, all I did was merely dislodging my timings, nothing more.

The bed time dived deeper into the night- from late night to very late nights and finally early morning. My eyes refused to close even at such time, thanks to my parents who swore me down to the bed, and I happily did. The rising time also shifted from the morning hours to the afternoon according to my sleep’s convenience. Well, sleep was the only next thing after her that I loved much over my life. Her obsession in my mind had taken a form that no longer could I neglect since even the thought of her possessiveness drove sleep out of my eyes. I awoke longer and longer through days, watching blank spaces and dry walls with almost dozing eyes.

Frequently, I found myself mingled in her thoughts with books spread all over my table- chemistry and physics, all that I loathed. This was a general change that love had brought. Since the beginning of time, I took shelter under various thoughts and subjects whenever I faced the books, but now, the scene was the same except for the roles had been swapped. It was she, who I dedicated all my time to. She always existed in my brain like food or sleep, and I didn’t even wish to get rid of her.

Crazy thoughts played in my mind every next moment of drawing, of painting, of writing, and of dreaming. Several times, I found myself sitting on the terrace, watching the moon hide in the gusts of clouds. It appeared nothing different than some black smoke, I remember. And then, I also remember the time, when I was walking with her on one of my nightly roams and suddenly, when we turned into a black, desolate street, I watched the blue color of her eyes turn into black. And then, the moon appeared in the pupils like a petal, literally, or more probably, like a hope. It was a full moon night, but sadly, the moon didn’t get the chance to show off its absolute beauty that night. The clouds were too heavy, and soon it began raining and we reached, sadly, her house.

Then, I also remember the night when I held a pencil over a white paper after a long time. It appeared to be an eternity, but it was just the previous night that I decided to turn her into a sketch. I’d always asked her if I can transform her beautiful smile into some words, but never ever did I ponder seriously over such a task. It was a doubt that I would devastate everything. But still, I wrote some words in the praise of my love (and called it poetry). I told her about the poem, and e-mailed her the text. ‘I would read it later, whenever I’ll have time,’ she replied. And again, she was smiling in my sketch. Though, it was not a sketch, or even a drawing, but I meant it to appear like at least any one of them. This time, I didn’t take the risk of making her familiar with my latest invention.

It was merely a matter of courage, and timing to show her all my works. I desperately needed to show her beauty to her. I was afraid of her reaction (since she was unaware of my love). Whatever it may be, at the beginning I highly underestimated the timing, but later as it came along, both courage and timing began to loop me into nothingness.

Then it came: the very, very bad times. The argument. The cold war. Was it something? Details about the damned thing vanished from my mind the very next moment she hung my call. It was something I was waiting for. Although she appeared in my dreams daily, and even kissed me, but there was nothing that could be compared to a ting of love in reality. Yes, I realized this later, very later. I was no suit for her. My phone’s screen remained black for majority of hours with my eyes fixed over it, waiting for some call (from only and only her, since I ignored every other person in my life).

Maybe, either she was busy with her studies, or… But one day, my phone rang triumphantly and picked the call with shaking hands.

‘Hello!’ I knew who it was, but her voice appeared to be incredibly soft and intoxicating then before. I was talking to her, and it was unbelievable.

She explained to me some bad news which was about something really bad that was very near to happening. ‘Quickly,’ she said in a feathery voice, turning my stomach into curls of fluff, ‘write a letter for me. That’s all you’re good for.’ And she hung the call. It was a joke. A letter to some authority whose seat stood at an altitude higher than that our dreams flew at. The next thing was the final line she spoke. The uncertainty whether it stood as an appreciation of my talents (whose existence I myself doubted sometimes), or else. Well, I wrote it for her. The very next day, she accepted the letter with a ‘What’s this?’ and a glaring look.

After she stuffed the paper into her bag, everything between us was reduced to nothing for a pretty much time. It appeared like another eternity, though, this one, I really sensed each and every second. Then, I was roaming on the very lone street alone. Her house was far, far away. The night was dark, and the moon was not full. There were no clouds, and the stars twinkled.

‘Hello,’ she called me as I stood at the very spot where the previous time the first raindrop had struck me on the nose. Her voice was as soothing as ever, but a little very nervous. ‘Email me whatever you’d written once more please. I misplaced the previous copy.’ It appeared to be everything for me. She had asked me to send her my poem once more. This time, I had many more of them with me, and yes! I also had the sketch I drew for her. But wait! What does this mean? Does she love me? All this ignorance, what was that? Was it just some sort of acting? Had I achieved her? What was it? If she asked for my poem, certainly she wanted to read it. She wanted to know how much I loved her. Oh! How wrong was I about her! She loved me and I mistook her. Damn me!

‘Yeah!’ I replied, overwhelmed. ‘Why not? But it would take some time.’

‘Tomorrow would work?’ she asked back.

‘No,’ I replied, with a taste of sorry in my voice. ‘I mean it’s going to take some ten minutes or maybe less. You know I am walking on the same street that…’ I was running towards my home by then when she ended the call with a ‘Bye!’ before my sentence was complete.

“Maybe she was still angry with me since I didn’t understand why she was ignoring me!” was all that I could figure out of her reaction. “Oh! Somebody tell her that I am alone on my walk, and missing her badly, very badly.

I reached my home in record time with my breaths breaking every time. My parents also admired my interest in whatever the work I’d with my laptop. I threw the screen open and connected the internet. ‘You look beautiful,” I expressed my views to the e-mail screen. Well then, what was the deal with a click of the sketch I had wearily drawn out of my imperfect hands being attached to the poem if she loved me? It was only going to give her joy. She would be happy and I would be twice that. I did so.

After a workout of almost an hour, the e-mail was ready to be sent: The title of the poem in broad font, and the whole text below it in small, beautiful letters. And then, there was my special note. “And here is something important. I drew it. Its you.”

After pointing out any other confusions from the text (yes, “Its you” was intentional), I pressed the sent button with an ever hard beating heart.

Almost an hour later, my phone rang again. My heart raced to its utmost and I kissed the screen. Very soon, you spoke out with a raged voice, without any “Hello” as before:

‘Okay, it’s good whatever you’ve done but I wasn’t able to find what I’ve asked for among that rubbish. WHERE IS THE LETTER?’ __________________________


© Copyright 2019 Prakhar Pandey. All rights reserved.

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