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  • The next evening when she came back, I was gone...without saying a word. I imagine she went into her room and sat down to find a note from me which was rather rude and garnished generously with a few abuses.

    With the last bag in my hand, I strained my neck and looked at the empty room. It was my home for many months now. There were neither tears nor an expectant smile. Only a drop of sweat that slid off my chin in the hot afternoon sun.

    She must've read the line and felt the acid that was me - my words, my lines- that was always me. Maybe she cried, maybe she smiled in disbelief and rolled her eyes, maybe she wasn't surprised at all. How would I know? I wasn't there.

    I left and many months have passed now. But my heart still remains a ghost. Every now and then, it travels to that top-floor, penthouse. Not for her memories, not for her scent. Not for her kind words or cruel deeds. It lives there in the open air for a moment or two and then comes back to the real me. If I were dead and became a haunting ghost, I know exactly where my spirit would be. I know what I miss and where I want to be. But for now, I lay here in the unknown, exploring every love I come across - plunging myself all the way in and picking myself up, dusting my butt off at the first sign of disappointment.

    She probably called a friend to share the pain? The anger? The proof? Probably bitched about me for a while to the patient listener - you know she's got one if not many.

    Maybe the feeling - whatever it was - lasted one dinner. Maybe it happens even now.

    Maybe I overestimate her love for me. Maybe I underestimate myself.

    How would I know? I'm never there
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