You're asked to close your eyes. 

It's a surprise, your mother tells you and you can't cheat and look. 

You cover your eyes with your hands to confirm that you aren't cheating. 

You hear  rustling paper and the plastic sounds of a box opening. 

There is a vague sweet smell. A mix of butter and perhaps something stronger, mint chocolate maybe.

Repeat the same event with as many variations as you please. 

It could be your sister instead of your mother. It could be a metallic sound and the smell of fresh stationery or coffee beans.

This is extremely silly to a lot of people. A large number of people I know despise surprises of all kinds. They would like whatever it is, straight up. Good or bad, fun or serious, they like it with no frills or drama. 

The funny thing is - when my eyes are shut and someone is unfolding something in front of me, in the end it doesn't matter what it is. It could be a book or a computer, it won't be the most important thing.  The best part of a surprise is hardly ever the thing at the end, it's almost always the build up.

On a very regular evening, I met you by the sea.

So much was said and so much was left behind because I feared it would never come out as sincere as I would have liked it to. I remember removing my chappals and keeping them next to me and sitting with my knees drawn towards my stomach. Peace; that's what I felt. These feelings are hard to find, trust me. Not too many of us can sit back and find ourselves in a moment where we are at peace with everything.

I have this memory safely tucked away somewhere. In my head and in my writing.

On long tiring days, I open this memory and remember the time when I was so happy that nothing could have possibly ruined that. No matter what goes down in the future, I know that this memory will remain untouched; covered with happy images of the sea and you.