The light peeps in through the carving on the top. She looks at it often enough but never really opens it.
The carving is intricate but quiet, it doesn't impose, it doesn't demand attention. Like the silence between the music, where they'd kiss against the night sky, his arms around her waist.
He gave her the box at the beginning of the summer last year. Did he know then that it was his last summer, she wondered. Had he decided at that point, that it was all too much for him?
She returned home, drenched from the rains, and found him hanging from the ceiling fan. His head leaned to one side and his mouth curled. Like he'd purse his lips any moment and say "You're beautiful, baby." And then she'd say, "Even like that? All drenched and mucky?" And he'd nod.
He gave her the box for her bangles, because she had so many and she'd have them lying around everywhere. But that never happened. For months after the unfortunate monsoon, the box just sat on one side of the bed. Her side of the bed. She slept on his side, taking in whatever was left of him. The impression on the pillow, a sliver of his perfume. Her heart would beat faster when that happened, and she would cry until her eyes got swollen and her throat closed.
Then one day, on a solo trip to a hill station, she found something in the middle of a forest. The remnants of something dark and terrible but also intriguing and convoluted. And then she brought it back and her heart thundered inside her until she put it in the box and wrapped it in a shawl and hid the box.
The crying stopped. She picked herself up. She ran a comb through her hair and went for jogs. She had a safety net. She had her box, she felt closer to him than she ever had before. She knew, if she wanted to, she could go to him.
Comfort is a strange thing. When you find it, you stop needing it as much. And it comes from strange things. Some write about it, some find pistols in odd places.
In the end, they all sleep better

We are falling down a chute. You and I.

Or maybe it's a broken swing, but there is nothing below.

Your face is expressionless, like stone and ice all at once. Your hair is like an enthusiastic wave around you. Your hands are all spread out. You don't look at me. Or you do, but you pretend to not.

We aren't here, but we were a while ago. Our voices linger in the wind. It's like listening to yourself on tape. Strange. Muffled. Real, but only just. I can sense the laughter in your voice. I can feel the affection in your tone. My voice sounds exactly the way it does every time it meets yours. Unbearably happy. 

We are on the ground now, a few feet apart. Facing in different directions. Our minds are miles away from each other. 

We aren't dead because we never lived. We aren't here. We were never here. If you shut your eyes tight and open them, all you will see is barren land. 

The trees are glowing with the afternoon light. The rustling tales get amplified as we come and stand under them.

We try and hold hands because there isn’t much else to do. You keep playing with your hair. It spills on to your shoulders in a riot. I am tempted to reach out and touch it. I don’t.

You have something to tell me. Under the cackling tree, you say you want your things back. Your clothes, that smell of flowers. Your books, some of which are dog eared from quoting and re-quoting passages in the night. Your slippers, pale and blue and smooth from use. I don’t have the courage to ask Why, but I notice that you have pulled away your hands and stuffed them into the pockets of your sweatshirt.

I nod. A brief, pointed nod. You look at me and the corners of your eyes, where my laughter lived for a bit, start to fill up. “It’s really hard. You know that right?” You ask me. You want me to say that I understand. I look at my feet.

We walk back, an awkward bubble walks between us. When it’s time to take different routes, I say See You Soon and you say Take Care, but neither of us mean it.

Run; fast and far.

They escaped in the dark of the night. They fled, leaving behind a dysfunctional marriage and unpaid bills.

She took a cab and eventually found herself walking through scores of people. Everyone looked at her, everyone smiled. They said, “You have such lovely hair.” Or “Oh I love your dimples” One of the men in a grey blazer took her by the crook of her arm and led her to a table facing the sea. He asked her if she liked wine and when she said yes, he stood up and poured her a glass; looking her in the eye the entire time. The rest of the night was a blur; she vaguely remembered bubbling with stories. He sat opposite, his chin propped on his palm, drinking in every word that left her mouth. He told her she was beautiful and she believed him.

He walked away into a quiet space under a tree and sat next to a couple of guys who were smoking. They offered him a cigarette and he accepted it, making rings of gratitude in the air. When he put it out, he felt strange. He felt drowsy and surreal. The guys around him were talking about a TV show and he found himself chipping in with his light-hearted opinions. They spoke for a long time, hours perhaps, without stopping to exchange names even. He remembered being rather thankful for the non-intrusive conversation. He enjoyed the span of time where he chose to speak and wasn’t forced into it.

The next day, they turned over on their sides and looked at each other through gummy morning eyes. He told her she was beautiful, but mentally shut his eyes tight as though in pain. She smiled and patted his cheek, but deep inside she knew he didn’t mean it.

Sea-side love.

Beyond the angry vehicles and the impatient people, there is a little world behind a blue umbrella.
The rain and the sea are riled up. The rain attacks the city with the new found vehemence. The blue umbrella holds its own. It stands strong, quivering only now and then, unable to contain the emotions.

Their world is a lot more secure in the monsoons. Behind the blue fabric, they are overwhelmed with everything they feel. The rainwater runs down their faces, like tears of gratitude. They trace patterns on each other's palms, speaking a secret tactile language.

They inch closer, trying to find a way to express themselves best. Their thoughts remain unspoken as they see a cop in a yellow raincoat at a distance.

They start walking away, worried that they'd have to bare their feelings in front of an irate policeman. The blue umbrella in all its majesty protects then from the rain, but fails to shield them from the judgemental eyes of the city.