Ashes and Fireflies

When we were sleeping under the stars, lying over the grass on the hill from where fireflies rise, you asked me whether I would return during winter and if I Loved the people who loved me. I found my voice choked. Aman, I hated you so much for asking me these questions at that moment. I just kept staring at the sky without saying a word, pretending I was lost in my thoughts. 

You called after the first snowfall of that year, and although you didn't say a thing, I could hear the contempt in your voice. You wanted me to be there, but the snow settled in the corner of my heart, which hadn't melted.

Aman, when you laughed while watching the sitcom, and I couldn't even smile, I was so jealous. The whole night we watched the sitcom, you laughed, smiled and kept stealing glances at me while I just stared at the screen. I still feel those ashes in my hand; sometimes, I touch the pages folded by you in my books just to feel like holding your hand. People still ask about you here, but you decided to live on that firefly hill long ago. My backpack hanging behind the door has your jacket in it. I pulled out the jacket and covered my shoulders with it. I looked outside the window, a sparkle was rising behind the bushes of wild roses.