By: Divya Garg
In the process of liking sad songs and the tragic endings of movies, I never thought we
would become one. I never thought we would call our love story the tale of longing and
yearning. It's a shame for both of us if we aren't separated by death itself but by a thousand
misunderstandings and circumstances seeping into our bond.
The nights we stitched with our jokes and our love still haunt me. Time speaks to me like a
hesitation, and I am afraid we will never find our way back to each other if it goes on like this.
I never knew that the simplest words between us would need a translation, yet we both
failed. We both failed to handle this delicate love in our tender hands.
If the universe could give me the dictionary of you, I would read every syllable and highlight it
with my love. I have learned to read your ghost like a newspaper article — unable to stop
even if I want to. We are the catalogue of our own grief, my love. There's no one to blame
but us and time.
If I had met you at 20, I would have hugged you closer to my chest and never let you go. But
at 15, I will learn to hold the cup of your absence, even if it stings, even if it burns. There was
a time when we were the tide and shore — always together with an inevitable pull and
retreat. I never knew there would be a time when we’d become two ships, lost in the farthest
corners away from each other’s land. I am as far away as you have pushed me, my love.
Do you still remember those nights when we promised each other forever and believed in it
like a superstition? I have still kept it safe as a relic, because neither you nor I know how to
bury it without burning it. I keep thinking about the cruelty of ordinary choices. And if one
wish were granted to me, I would change every action of mine that hurt you. I would change
yesterday so my tomorrow could be different.
A day of cowardice and a simple, unkind word ruined us and moulded our bond into a
fracture of decayed bones. We rerouted two lives with the subtlety of a river changing its
bed. Maybe one day we will set the truth free without armour, and find peace in its plainness
— not hoping for it to be the bridge to connect us.
Until then, I wish you the best without any punctuation or full stop to that sentence. If we
must be parted by everything but death, then let us be parted gently. Let us hold hands for
the last time and go to our favourite place. Let us order coffee and sip it while staring into
each other’s eyes as time passes by. Let the wind answer all our unanswered questions. Let
us not forget the tenderness we shared because of a few bitter days. Let us spare each
other the cruelty of becoming strangers overnight.
And if fate wants to step in as a jealous editor, may the parts that remain between us teach
us how to love better next time — even if the next time never comes.
Author's bio
Divya is a 16-year-old writer who lives in India. For her, writing has always been an escape, through which she explores the intricacies of human emotions and tries to capture them in her writing, bringing them back to life. Her works are previously published in Haven Literary, Epiphany Anthology, The Milagros Literary, Writers Magazine, The Passionate Post, and many other literary magazines. Some anthologies that include her work are Chromatic Currents and Beautiful Chaos. She has been writing original poems since she developed a passion for writing. You can check out her other works on her Instagram handle @diaryofdivi