Brown eyes.
Rosy cheeks.
Beautiful smile.

Her portrait indeed was the work of a fine artist, with every inch of perfection. He hung it above his bed so that he could look at her while trying to fall asleep each night.

Everything about the portrait was beautiful.

Until she crawled out of it one midnight.

-

Draped in satin, she lay in a huge canopy bed with two of her maids trying to keep her feet warm. She was not accustomed to such fuss.
She switched sides restlessly.
Sometimes, she wished she hadn't left behind a shoe.

-

You left.
Years passed.
Dreams crashed.
My playlist changed.

And today you ask me, "How are you?"

-

Reyansh.

Tonight I'm waiting for you, on the front steps of our house. The light has flickered and went off. It's dark.

I sit there with The Lost Symbol in my hand, the book which you said was your favorite. I had been somewhere in the middle of it.

It's getting darker and Enrique's Somebody's Me is playing on the radio.

The moonlight seeps in through the branches of the old mango tree, the one we had planted together.

You seem farther away. Can't you listen to my pounding heart? Aren't you gonna come home?

The darkness stretches over and I see no soul, hear no whisper, feel no warmth.

I'm home. Yet far from it.

Where are you, Reyansh?

-

I showed Daddy my handmade doll.
He was proud of it.

Until the day I started piercing it.

-

She sheds a tear of joy while standing in line to buy my bestseller.
If only she knew, 10 years back, I cried the entire night when she'd said,
"You're good for nothing."

-

He had said if I ever opened his heart, I would find myself there.

Well, I did what he said.
But there was just blood.

-

It's scary .
The loneliness in being forgotten.

-

You speak of scars.
You speak of broken hearts and wounds that never healed.
You speak of nightmares and fear of loneliness.
You say I haven't had it that bad.

Yes, true.

But being less broken doesn't make me whole.
Does it?

-

You are the author of the stories in my eyes.

-