Of Incomplete Stories Of Our Own

It’s rather strange.. one day, you are talking with a person like there’s no tomorrow, trusting him/her with your secrets, throwing your head back and laughing, unaware of the uncertainties that the future holds. That day, you are telling him/her about how much they mean to you and of how you’ll remain friends forever, ignoring the very existence of irrational forevers. That day, the sunset doesn’t matter, for you know you will meet him/her again. But the next day, the person is gone. Just like that.

There are no more pages to be flipped open. There are no more chapters. The story is over. The book is closed with a rather quiet sound. The lamp beside your bed flickers as you remember your cherished laughter. A cool breeze brushes past your face, drawing two lines against your scarlet cheeks.

You learn never to trust forevers. You learn that fairy tales are never real. You learn that people will leave – leave you more broken than ever.

Every next day, you wake up with a fear of losing someone else. Your lip quivers every time you think about the people who left you. And yet again, on rainy days, you remember them and smile. They hold a piece of your heart.

Now that they are gone, you know, it will never be the same again. Just like that.

The story is over. There’s no one to write it further.

And the book sits on your dusty shelf, drowning in memories of its own.

The story is over. Just like that.

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