I knew I’d miss you. Not after few days, or few hours after you left, but the moment you did. I knew I’d miss you. And it isn’t even surprising to know that you never really left. You were always present, in all of me, even in my broken heart. Your presence isn’t just about being with you. Your presence is what the heart still feels. Your presence is spattered paint on the canvas. Your presence is the ink on the sheet. Your presence is the stars in the night sky. Your presence is the raindrops that fall on the face. Your presence is the skin you once embraced. The broken heart doesn’t seem to be broken at all and is a fact that you are present, here, now and forever. However, I miss you.
I can never explain why I love you. I don’t know why I love you. I mean, it is you! And I love you. I can explain why I like to be with you. I can explain why I would understand your anger. Or why I can’t live without you. And the answers to all these questions would be, ‘because I love you’. I don’t want to spend my time thinking about the reason. I don’t need and I’d never need a reason to love you. I just do.
I can learn the theory behind most complex scientific facts, or all the economies of this world. I can try to learn the periodic table by heart, or trivial details of all micro organisms, but I can never learn to un-love you. I can never learn to forget you, or anything that is related to you. I swear. I cannot!
I didn’t think of writing all this. I didn’t want to shed a tear. I wanted to be strong, strong enough to not let the moments and memories find their way through the bleeding pen. But I couldn’t stop myself. Maybe I could have, only if this evening I had not found out one of your chits that you once wrote to me. The chit that said: Sometimes both pizza and people are away from a call. The ten words were just enough to let me sink into the ocean of love and separation.
I am bounded by your words and I am bounded by my doctor’s words. But you, you are not bounded. And I know you’ll realize this soon. I know you’ll miss me, too.
– Kritika Vashist