Nidhi Katoch blog

 Last night, when I sat by the window, talking to you, through the moon, I knew someone was listening to me. I pretended not to notice, because someone won't understand a word of it. Who had ever understood what the romantics said? I touched the windowsill; the wood reminded me of your last days. Weak but warm. I accidentally got a splinter in my finger. It started to remind me of the blood you vomited on my hand, and I kept the brave face; you kept the smile, following the silent agreement that we won't talk about it, and we didn't till your final days.  I so much envy this full moon; it took all the light from my sun, leaving me in the dark. It shines so bright. Oh, my love, if I could ever hold your hand once more, I would sing the song again, the song of your childhood. I met your friend last month, and he talked about all the happy things that happened between you both, how there was a jungle behind the valley, and your cows were friends, grazing all over the jungle. H...

  Dear Aman,  I lit up the lamp on my bedside and tried to read a few lines of the letters written by you. Funny, how my life has now been confined to these four walls, where the only sound I can hear is either the page flap or the sound of my own heartbeat. Heartbeats I usually ignore; they don't seem necessary anymore. Everyone in their lives has felt that their heart beats for no one, or no one is there for whom these beats are important. Once, these beats were so important to us, falling for your first crush, listening to some cool band, pranking your best friend, winning a school race, running in a marathon. Seeing myself, it's so hard to believe I once ran a marathon for fun; again, the beats don't matter anymore.  Each day I feel like the walls are talking to me, they weep through their peeling. I once coloured these walls pink for the sake of my love for flowers and balloons, and pasted the paintings I drew, paintings of flowers and seasons. Now my colours are all...