To enrapture her too.

As I enter the cafe, my gaze meets hers. As usual, she’s sitting right across from the seat I always occupy when I’m here. She quickly looks away, peering down to the notebook that she always has, just as she always does. I see her, though. I always do. I pretend to read a book when I sit down, but my eyes are always focused on her. I think she knows that. I don’t know what I’ll do if this routine that we seem to be following breaks. I don’t know how it would feel to not have her pretty face right in front of me. I don’t want to imagine.

I haven’t ever read what ever it is that she writes, but I can almost read the words on her face. She’s sad. It feels as if each word that she pens down, recalling whatever that she does, makes her heart shatter, and with every blot of ink on the paper, she gets lost somewhere. I wish I knew where the words took her. I wish I could bring her back. I haven’t ever seen her smile, and I have not an inkling of doubt that she’d look heart-breakingly beautiful when she would. I wish I could be the reason behind her smile.

As is always the case, I get lost in reading my book, which just happens to be not the one I held in my hand but the closed off book sitting in front of me. Today, however, I don’t get to try reading more as she gets up in a hurry and scurries out of the cafe before I even have time to react. For a few moments, I stare at her retreating form from the window to my side and curse myself for letting her get away yet again. But then again, what exactly could I have said to her to make her stay?

Resignation and despair fill me to the brim as I decide to give some attention to my book. But I can’t. Because as soon as I look at the table, I’m shocked. A page from her notebook rests on the table as if it isn’t the most unusual thing for it to be there. Before I let myself think it over, the page is my hands, my eyes skimming through her messy handwriting that looks exactly like her handwriting should. Messy, yes, but perfect. Just like her.

Dear.. I have no idea what your name is,

I have no idea what I’m doing but I know that I have to do.. whatever this is. You keep looking at me. And I keep wondering why. To be honest, the first time you did, I was livid. This cafe was the only place I didn’t get looks full of pity and there you were looking at me. I didn’t have the courage to look at you and see if yours was full of pity as well. And when I did gather the courage, I was blown away by the fact that the look on your face was a far cry from that of pity. It felt like you were looking right into my soul. Perhaps you were. Perhaps you always do.

I guess I’m tired of not communicating with anyone. All I hear from people is a word that I’m fed up of. Sorry. I hope you’d never be that. Not for me. Because I don’t want to be sorry for myself any more.

Still, sometimes I wonder if I could just forget. If I could just erase the past. So that there’d be no reason for anyone to be sorry anymore. But I just can’t.

I still remember every time I had hurt. It still pains at times. But I will it not to. And I’ve learned to push it to the back of my mind. But it’s always there, there, there.

I remember crying. I used to cry at least a day in a week. And when a week used to go by without any tears, I used to be afraid of the tears the next week would most probably bring.

I remember feeling worthless. Unlovable. I was told I wasn’t good enough. And that I made too many mistakes. That no one else would ever want me. Not my family. Not my friends. It is hard to convince myself that all that isn’t true. Especially when as soon as it was all over, I found myself all alone. But I’m still trying.

Once I found myself free of the shackles, I made mistakes. I shouldn’t have done certain things. But I was lonely and I was hurt and so I did what made the pain go away. What I didn’t know was that it will return. And so it did.

The hardest thing is to accept the past as a part of who I am, who I would be. To accept that I can only move forward now. The wounds would heal but the scars will remain. It is difficult to love the scars. It is difficult to love myself. Because I’m not that girl. I’m the girl who’s guilty pleasure is idiotic romcoms, the girl who wishes to romanticize everything, the girl who wants to be loved by someone other than herself. But I can’t be that girl. I can’t let anyone in again until I let myself love myself. It’s a toiling process, but slowly I’m learning. Maybe one day my romantic dreams too would be realised. But I’ll try not to hold my breath. I’ve got a lot of roads to walk on, now that there are no eggshells involved.

I don’t know why I wrote all of that to you. But I did. And I don’t want any more what ifs. So here it all is. Not all, really. There’s plenty you may be curious about. At least I’m hoping you are.

Anyway, there’s no going back now. So I guess I’ll see you the next time around. If I haven’t creeped you out. I’ll be where I always am, waiting for you like I always am. Just that this time, I really wish you’d see me. And I you.

She didn’t sign the letter with any name. Just left me hanging. Probably because she must feel the same right now. As soon as I had completed reading the letter, I knew what I had to do. I had to let her know of my curiosity. I had to see her. I had to let her see me. And I had to make her smile.

-fin.-
(Wrote a bit of fiction after long. Whoever you are, I hoped you enjoyed it!)