Today, I made the painful decision to write about you. But writing about you feels futile. How can I write your name, let it slide beneath my trembling fingertips, when my fingers long for more than just your name; they ache for you. How can I bear to keep seeing your name, when what I truly yearn for is to see you, to feel your presence? I attempted to put your memory into words, to cast out your haunting thoughts from my mind, but the futility of that effort becomes painfully evident as writing about you floods me with every precious memory we ever shared.
How can I not immerse myself in us, reliving us with the same shared smiles from those carefree days? I lean back and allow my mind to wander through the gallery of our history, revisiting your endearing jokes and my equally foolish comebacks. I see your hand tenderly stroking my hair as we rode on the scooter, your stolen kisses. I see the way your eyes locked onto mine in a room full of friends, and I see myself desperately searching for your familiar face in a sea of strangers.
I could write about all of this. I could pour my tears onto these pages, but I digress. Sometimes, I feel like a model from the melancholic paintings of the 1800s. Not for my beauty or the confidence that exudes, but solely because I became your muse. You painted my essence, etched your mark deep within. And then, what? I'm forgotten, left to wither in the vast sea of people who once caught your gaze.
While I allowed you to capture me, I was beautiful. While I remained under your watchful eye, I was yours. But my existence is tethered to your attention. The moment the canvas is complete, in your world, I cease to exist. You move on, and I'm left behind, abandoned. I linger in the purgatory of your memory, replaying every second you spent in my presence, observing, admiring, and carefully crafting your strokes.
Others may glance at me through your eyes and witness the beauty you once saw, but I'm left alone, in the darkness of ignorance, never truly comprehending what you unearthed in me. You are gone.
"Ab phir haath tham mera Udte kaleen par khil raha hu.
Kitab ke aakhiri panne bache hai Isliye dheere padh raha hu.
Tu janta hai khudsa tere sath hota hu Jitna khud ke sath nahi hu.
Isliye ab phir haath tham mera Udte kaleen par khil raha hu."
Unexpressed love, the kind that lingers unseen, arrives in subtle, unnoticeable ways. You'll never dare to admit it, for acknowledgment exacts a heavy toll. I'd ask you to keep it buried deep within yourself, to find solace in the mere sensation of it. Even if it shatters you, what's more poetic than to shatter yourself in love? Particularly when you have the privilege of holding them close, of being with them, it's best to let your love remain unspoken. Yes, the eventual break will be more brutal, but they won't bear the weight of it. It's your love, your pain, and it's yours to carry. You may have breathed life into it, but would you dare to extinguish it?