In this space, in this moment I am alone. It's not pleasant, but it's not unbearable either.

I used to be excited about birthdays and new years and would need to be hugged before exams and through pain. I needed people. Now, I find myself turning to writing, to the blog, for catharsis and comfort.

I am exhausted from pretending to be at peace with things; from not telling people what I think because I really have no gumption left for honest talk and confrontations.

In this space, I am true to myself. I am aware of the fact that  for the most time, you just have yourself.

Sunlight falls on the life size clock. A girl stands in the centre, facing the curvaceous 12, holding long stemmed roses. She is wearing a red and white dress. The hands of the clock come together in front of her, like an arrow coming out of her small bleeding heart.

The hands move around her. She feels important for a brief while but gets used to it soon enough. She looks around her, at the hands and the harsh afternoon sun, and then she waits. Her hair moves in wave like ripples. She appears to be moving with time. She looks to her right now. Her eyes fill with liquid anxiety and her hands hold on to the roses with an iron like grip.

The sun walks away, in the evening calm, without so much as a second glance at her. The anger has seeped out of her in small dark patches on her back and in streaks across her face. She has her back to the start of her day, her life has literally turned around.

The darkness covers the clock and time seems to stop, even though we know it never really does.

She’s gone, while the hands move around dutifully, working hard to draw the day to an end. The crumpled roses lie in a heap where she once stood, smelling of discarded love.

We stood there and shared a moment.

One which was perfect enough to not want to change, yet not so perfect that you'd be afraid that you'd ruin it. Perfection, here, wasn't an absolute.

I remember what you said to me and I remember the tone of your voice. 

Many years from now, the words will fade. In the scratchy taped version in my head, your lips will form soundless words. I will, even then, remember the look on your face and the funny, fluttery feeling that I felt somewhere at the bottom of my stomach.

That little patch of time was swathed in layers and layers of emotion. I knew there were all sorts of feelings - awe, unbelievable happiness and the tingling surprise.

There was also some variant of fear; that I would never ever witness something so special ever again. 

It slowly eats me up from within.

Regret; unforgiving and judgmental. “You asked for it.” It tells me, the cold eyes don’t blink. I know. I know.

On regular days, it finds me when I am sitting lazily, drinking lemon water and honey because apparently it’s good for you. It makes me draw in sharp breaths, in quick succession. Are there chances to be good again? Mean laughter from a dark place. No phones ring and no messages reach.

On particularly bad days, it sticks by my side, like an annoying relative in a dull marriage. Mocking me, reminding me of how I was wrong and how wrong I was. While I try and sleep, it jumps up from behind me, even in the safety of my mind, and catches me off guard.

The God of Small things has the greatest lines ever written. I quote them every chance I find.

“That’s what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.”

Love is a tricky word, it could mean different things to different people.

But there were careless words involved. That’s the thing about stuff you say. Try as you may, you can’t ever really scrub it off people’s memories.

My regret and I often have winding conversations. Needless to say, I am always defeated.