Conversations ✔

In her mind.

The most effective conversations were in her head. The most beautiful moments that transpired between them when they interacted, they continued into something more in her daydreams.

Enough was a foreign concept to her when it came to him. She wanted more of everything, more of the reactions, facial expressions, laugh, smile and terrible jokes with the accompanying puns.

She loved how he looked at her when she teased him, finding double meaning in everything he said. She loved his terrible coffee with too much sugar, how he relished in the taste of biscuits.

"You okay?" She asked him. Of course he wasn't, she knew. But she didn't know how else to express her concern.

He didn't hesitate to lie, "Yeah! I'm alright. Why? Do I look not okay?"

Duh, she wanted to say. She knew him better than his lies, she wanted to confess.

"No, you look tired?" She didn't know how to say it without making him feel bad about his own feelings.

She remembered the time he told her about an incident that occurred, with his bike. The ideas that flooded her mind, seeing him laying there, in her mind. Imagining him bleeding, a truck honking endlessly as he recovered himself from the whole thing.

Her heart clenched, her mind reeling. It was not a good feeling, imagining him badly hurt, let alone dead.

"I'm a little tired, yes. It's been a bad week. I just want to be home." He said, his voice stern and his face giving nothing away. Again, he said this like it was a little too usual. Much to her dislike.

As she hummed, acknowledging his words and not wanting to probe, she went back to her dark thoughts.

The way he said it, he had to go off road to save himself from getting squashed by a lorry. A damn cargo lorry.

She looked at him with gloomy feelings, his slender tall frame wouldn't be standing beside her in this moment.

She never cared that people die, not until a few people did actually die. And she knew very well that the feeling of wanting the random calls and conversations that would've happened if they were alive, it was torture.

His appearance in her life was not supposed to be this affecting in such an short period of time, but it was. And she did not hate it like she should. She just accepted it, warmly.

In her mind, things go differently. They go the way she partly wants them to as much as she hates herself for it.

In her mind, she can heal the scars he so desperately tries to hide.

In her mind this was his answer; "No, actually. I am not okay. I have terrible insomnia among other things at home. It keeps piling up each time I think one problem is solved."

And even in her mind, she has no idea what she would say if he did open up like that.

In was unnecessary, she concluded, for him to say anything because words were never her forté.

"Are you okay?" He would ask.

And "No," she would say. She too, would not spill anything about what was bothering her. Partly because she doesn't want to open up either, and partly because she has no fucking clue what the hell was the issue.

It was always like this with her. Since a young age. Her days would just become gloomy for no reason. She would find herself spiralling into depression, for reasons unknown to her.

The proof is in the scars she bears, on the thighs, arms and belly. Once she ran into a sharp surface and hurt herself, she knew physical pain was capable of shutting her raging emotions up. And so it began, the smiles from a handsome fresh pencil or razor.

The word pain was more pleasing than the word numb, empty.

"Come here." He said in her mind, as he often did outside her mind.

And here she would go. And here was within his warm embrace, as they breathed for the first time after a long time. And they would remain like that.

Until a tear escaped from her eyes, a revelation of how she truly felt. She felt unbelonging on earth. Like she was missing something out there. Like she was not supposed to be existing. Her identity, her personality, all these things had no match on earth. Did her mother not want to have her? Perhaps her father? Were these feelings hereditary? Was it just her terrible curse called empathy? Was she carrying someone else's emotions?

But who? Who could be feeling this terrible? Why would they let these feelings eat them alive like they did her?

No, it was just her. She was the problem. And earth was too fragile to handle it all so she was alone. The sun turned its back on her, and so the moon smiled at her. No, Luna, everything won't be alright.

Existential crisis, she would soon realise that was the reason her days seemed to fade away. Her art was not saving her anymore, it was a painful reminder of the times it used to save her.

Nothing was working, despite her tries. She tried to smile, to make conversations, to sketch, to paint, to write, to read, to sing or listen to music. But nothing worked, like her favourite things were annoying, her escape was shut right before her eyes before she could slip out.

So deep within these thoughts, ranging from the inability to function as a normal human being is presumed to be to the impending death of people around her, within these thoughts she would be enveloped in the abyss.

But not at that moment, in his arms. In that moment she let it run. The tears staining his jacket, the one he looks so graceful in. He has no business looking this handsome, she once told him. It was effortless, how he looked, walked, and carried himself.

But in that moment, she felt one thing. She felt it and she embraced it, not willing to let go of it.

Serenity.

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