Slowly and stealthily I followed her. She looked familiar but then again I knew better than to relate – for she was someone I could never be, her soul binged on darkness, her half-smile painting a fake picture of her life in the obscure evening sky.
Dressed in petals of tranquility, the chaos camouflaged. I ran after her. Me, the ever strong one then seemed like a little girl chasing her fairytale dream.

I had questions for her, you know. Questions, she has been avoiding for a long time now. And I had to leave something with her, as I leave people behind and move on again.
As I stood there face to face, before I could ask her her state she demanded her own life back from me. I stood there shaken, and gave her the look which said she was mistaken, but then she wasn’t ready to hear. All she wanted was this godforsaken claustrophobic life which I had just scrapped off. She wanted it back. The thing, I mean.
It was a significant part of her, she used to say when we were a little more than acquaintances. There were crumpled pieces of dog-eared memories, I had to give back. An old guitar tune and an unheard song – they were all hers. A few whispers on starry nights and a couple of butterfly kisses that her lover-no-longer left in yellowed letters.

Five minute-memories on the lane beside the coffee-shop, tears stinging her eyes and her lips repeating long-lost promises. The portion of the red sky that belonged only to her – she said they had even booked a star by her name there – a part of those coffee-stained dreams that often left a bittersweet aftertaste. They were all hers.
I chased her – she had left majority of my questions unanswered I needed explanations. But she blended into the darkness. She despised the day, she told me once. She loved the darkness cupping her existence in both hands. The world called it madness, she said it was security. She loved the night sky – the stars peeping through their purple blanket and her lover-no-longer cupping her face in his hands, staring into her eyes and bending down to kiss her quivering lips.
Chasing her was like chasing her memories, one by one.
A ragdoll, she was. Ragdoll of fate. Of time. Of things unknown. Of love, yes. Yet, I chased her. I had to find her, give her all she had lent me and go my own way. I didn’t need her. I didn’t need her things. I wanted to move on. I had finally accepted what life had sought to tell me for the last 10 years and today when I didn’t want to move on with any baggage of the past, I couldn’t find her to give things back to her – the worthy owner!
The chase reminded me of rainy evenings, one hand playing with elusive raindrops and the other holding a choco-mousse. It was weird how the rain sang love-songs with their pitter-patter builds about a sense of melancholy. That while outside life seeps into the parched earth with those droplets of rain, sitting inside the room watching the rain drops trickle down the panes – life seems slipping by! Reading old love-letters, watching pictures of a time that now seems alien – did it really happen or was this too a part of the big pink-fat-book? A pink tee that lies unseen in the corner of the cupboard. No one knows about it or the smell it carries – the musky smell of comfort of those arms that spelled security. It’s not hers. But I need to give it back to her. Maybe she could use the reminiscent of the fast evaporating smell? The tee also had an atavistic fragrance of memories. Of snuggling up in bed on a distant afternoon in ….. the month is even hazed now, I sigh! Of ice-cream kisses. Of lovemaking that ended in tears. Of secret phone-calls and then the numerous unreturned ones. A brown diary that her lover-no-longer was gifted when she drifted away. A few photographs – old babyish photographs. She resembled her baby-self in them but they said she had changed a great deal. A ring with a purple stone – amethyst!
A couple of yesterdays, too.
But I cannot run anymore. I see her in the distance, standing at the horizon, waiting for darkness. With outstretched hands she seemed to give away more than she invited – false promises of love, of utopia, while inviting the serenity of darkness.
I want to tell her that darkness will not come. And that the promises will crumble again. And that Utopia doesn’t exist.
But I don’t. I stand here, staring at her. Transfixed. Wondering how she becomes more beautiful with every shattered fairytale.
Wondering if I’ll ever meet her again.