I'm at a bus stop. It's raining here, so cabs aren't easily available. I'm waiting for a bus that might not arrive either. Just like you. You will never arrive. I'm sure that by now I would have made myself an object of mockery. A creep, perhaps, who cannot take things in the stride. And why shouldn't I be mocked?

Sometimes, I cringe thinking how easily you slipped into another man's arms after slipping out of mine; how your conscience wouldn't have been one bit guilty even after knowing how I felt about you and how your touch had the power to destroy me, which it did. I think about how nonchalantly you would have placed your lips on his without giving even a second of a thought that your taste off mine hadn't waned. And how easily the two of you took off. Even fate didn't have fucks to give.

(Letter in the caption)

- A heart penned down