In the moment

by Somethinger

Dear You,

It’s your message this evening that makes me realize that I will never be able to predict how you think. That in your trusting me, you have made yourself vulnerable to someone who you thought was fascinated by you then. I confess, I was not. I was sure of what you were. But it’s been over a month. Over a month, boy! And it’s now that you begin to puzzle me. With your words and your misplaced punctuation and your long, drawn-out pauses.

It’s now that the distance and the magnanimity of it starts falling into place, and the ride becomes a terrain. A hilly one. When the curves in the road and the lack of a junction to stop and wait for the other become unpredictable. It is not that we did not expect it. We always knew, always warned each other of the ride ahead, and politely asked if the other must want to alight from this. Politeness, uncertainty, hope and those breathless moments of trying to anchor the other into the notion that maybe this is a good idea- in moments when believing it is the most difficult. Yes, we are building castles in the air, huts by the sea-side, and a story that we could never have believed possible and safe for anyone dear to us. What started with a curious conversation has literally bloomed into sleepless nights and shivering fingertips and a tenderness that we cannot sit down and explain to our parents should we have to. The distance is one of the many troubles we may have. But just like the questions that come time and again to our mind (What do couples talk about? What excuse do you use to cover up for long hours of sleep that you lose out on? How far is your city from mine, again?)  it’s the conviction that the answers form at the tips of our fingers that have held this in place. Some times yours, some times mine.

This note I write to you is no promise of tomorrow. I  write with no assurance that I will not break down and confess that this insecurity consumes me and I need to break away from this. I write with no certainty that you will not be convinced that this is all futile and we must meet and eventually spend time with people we can see, bring home, touch.

I write only with the wonder of having you a centimetre’s touch away on my phone, in my head with your laughing, worrying, calming voice. I write with the experience of today that whatever surprise you bring on me tomorrow, I will trust, like I have all this while, only my instinct. Incredibly- it hasn’t hurt me much so far, no?

 

Love,

Me.

 

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