Day 13 of the 15 day lockdown writing challenge.
”Thank you for the memories.” He says.
I raise an eyebrow at him. Did he just say ’Thank you’? He never says thank you.
”What”? He asks after noticing my raised brow.
”Oh, nothing!” I shrug. ”I just wasn’t expecting that.”
”You know, if I…” He drifts off. ”Never mind. You wouldn’t notice.”
”Say what, now”? I’m confused.
”Goodnight.” He turns to leave before the word is even completely out of his mouth.
I stand there, dazed. He has a lot of unspoken words, I know. He, however, never starts when he can’t finish. He thinks the whole statement through to make sure that nothing in it can put him in a tight spot. He always does this except, of course, just now.
I make my way back to my room and get undressed. I sit on my bed and my brain starts to process every possible thing he could have meant tonight. It’s a classic over-thinker move – hearing ’never mind’ and choosing to do the opposite.
My phone’s screen is lighting up every now and then as notifications come in. I see the light come on and off but never actually digest the fact that I should probably get to those notifications. At this rate, I’ll wake up tomorrow with a thousand messages to reply. I stare at the phone screen a while longer. I’m so fascinated by the flash of light and how quickly it’s snuffed out. I realise I’m enchanted because it mirrors myself. I come up with a good thought of what he wanted say to me could have been but the joy of it is snatched away by an absurd thought that’s similarly possible but makes me sad. I keep staring till one of the notifications stand out.
It carries his name and the preview shows it’s a document. I pick up the phone with enthusiasm that I was seriously lacking a minute ago. I click on the notification bar so it opens up my conversation with him.
”I hope you notice.” The message above the document reads.
I open the document and see words running into lines and lines into verses. It’s a poem. Or, by the looks of it, it’s poems.
His words might be unspoken but, apparently, they aren’t unwritten. A skim shows me they are in metaphors, though. Hence, I’m left to decipher the truth despite carrying the thought of what I’d rather those words be.
It’s going to be a long night.