It isn’t love, my word.

She knew he was incapacitated. She wanted to help him and she knew exactly how. He needed to write and she knew what a writer needs; fresh air, a walk, deep breaths and someone to hold his hand, to make him walk, to make him breathe, to make him write.
The wind beat against her face, her hair unkempt.
“Come on, close your eyes.”
He looked confused, but obliged her anyway. He knew she meant well, her ways were always a little obscure and obtuse, so he closed his eyes and felt her presence behind him. What was he supposed to do after closing his eyes?
“Now, breathe in.” She commanded him from behind, as if almost reading into his mind, while sheltering herself from the drizzle. They were on the terrace, high above the ground from where people looked like their miniscule self. She looked at him do exactly what she asked him to. She knew he was caught with his guard off, she knew he was lost. His ways were too straight, she needed to make him bend.

She slipped her hand into his; guiding him toward a destination only he knew the road to.

“Come, join me.” He felt her hand tighten the squeeze around his fingers.
“I don’t need that. You do. This is your journey.” She knew he would flutter initially but she also knew he would soon find his way. She let go of his hand and stood in front of him. His hands were on the boundary wall. She slipped herself under one arm and he opened his eyes. He had questions, she knew. He had the answers, she knew that too. They were face to face.

“Don’t open them!” He sighed and closed them again. The vertigo got to him; he held her waist to get some semblance to his blank, black world. Her hair brushed his chin as she rested her head on his shoulder.
“What am I supposed to do, Maya?”
“But, write how, write what?”
“You will figure it out”

She always left him without any guidelines. Her world was such; no rules, no followers and everyone eventually reached where they were supposed to. He had come to understand her over the past few months. The ways in which her mind worked were simple yet layered, easy yet deep. His was a more one dimensional approach- food, beer and work. His life was what he wrote and she had breezed into his life with exactly that- her words. He was a simple man too, like her, but he knew he was simple, unlike her. She always wanted to think of herself as the opposite, as someone who was difficult. Maybe she was, but he understood her like a bird understands flight.

He stood there, thinking about the curve of her waist, the fragrance of her hair and the immense desire she had…desire of what, he could never fathom. He moved his hands as she shuffled to a more comfortable position and words began to flow out like poetry, gradually, just like she had promised they would. He opened his eyes.

“ I have something. You know, Maya, I always have something, but I can never put them to words.” She knew what he was going through. She smiled and closed her eyes too and just before she did, she spotted a firefly. He saw it too. She lifted her head, close to his ears and ever so softly, he felt her breath brush through his skin.
“This is your story. This is your world. This is all yours.” She whispered to him, while he felt his poetry jumble into words. His eyes, closed again, he felt exactly what she wanted him to feel. She stepped closer, stood up straight. His hand tightened around her waist. She moves, he falls. Her lips touched his ear while she spoke in a whisper.
“This is your time, this is the moment. What do you want to write, Dhruv? What do you think should happen next?”



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