I paint my fingernails in ‘Multicolours’, because it is your favourite colour. You often comment that it reminds him of childhood memories, innocence and happiness. I nod in agreement, though I silently hate it, because those colours resemble happiness, which I hardly experience. I ponder whether it would look over-dramatic to sprinkle a bit of Silver dust to look as if fairies have dusted their magic on my nails. Will you notice? Will you think my nails are beautiful, though they are cracked like the kitchen walls? I stare at them for a moment. Now it seems like the rainbow had drunk a gallon of paint and Silver dust and puked all over my nail. I peel them off.
I look myself in the mirror and analyse my anatomy. I am tall and not slender but rather thin with round almond eyes and my should length jet-black hair. The mirror further tells that I am ugly with brown skin and small lips, unlike your girl friends with huge red lips begging to be kissed. Those are the only thing that the mirror ever tells me every morning, every night, with a twist of mockery in its face.
Do you think I am pretty?
You like to paint you say and I say I like writing. As you continue to talk about how you can express yourself more clearly and accurately through art, I nod again. I want to ask you to show me one of the paintings, but instead I bite my lips. I wish you could invite me to your house, so then I can peep into the interior of your life; your thoughts and the way you live. You ramble on and I gaze at your beautiful eyes. Your eyelashes are so long; they’re curled up at the end and your eyes, a deep shade of bronze, with laugh lines at the corners. You are not perfect, but you are close to that. You say my name and I am startled. Why do you always turn my heart into a hot air balloon whenever you say my name? You grab my hand and squeeze, sending an electric current through my veins. You ask me whether he is boring me and I answer Ofcourse not. Honestly, how can I be bored of you? I wish I could tell you that you are the most amazing thing that ever happened to me.
Then, will you kiss me?
I lie on bed till you call me. It’s been nearly 20 hours and 43 mins since you called. I hug my favourite pillow and pretend it’s you. I imagine that I could smell your t-shirt, that always smells like washing powder. I want to smell your hair, which smells like baby cologne; deeply intoxicating, making me want to cuddle you as if you are a baby. I dab some drops of baby cologne on to the pillow and kiss it, inhaling you deeply into my lungs. I close my eyes and listen to your voice in my head and in a second, I’m overwhelmed with warmth as if I’m devouring a glass of hot chocolate. This wonderful feeling travel up to my toes and I am suddenly sleepy. Then I hear laughter like water running over the rocks. Rough, beautiful and music to my ears. I wish I could record it and play it as my lullaby. I am deeply indulged in my fantasies. When you finally call and I and do a spider-man leap and answer in one ring. You say let’s hang out and I say ‘okay’,nonchalantly, when actually my heart is jumping up and down and finally floating. My mind, in contrast is arguing with my heart not too overjoy so much since because we will only end up drinking coffee, the usual, but my heart does not listen.
Will you ever love me?
Most of these I write a lot in my journal. I write about you and how you always seem to be knowing what to say at the appropriate moment, how you instinctively drum on whatever surface you lay your fingers on to and how you love to eat caramel pudding. Sometimes I actually make Caramel Pudding, hoping to gift some to you, but I can never muster the courage. What if you hate it? I will never know. Have you ever realised that your ears turn into a dark shade of pink whenever you are embarrassed? I know you more than you know yourself. I can read you like a book. Do you know me too?
I remember once you recommended me one of your favourite songs, which was Iris by Goo Goo Dolls. I named it our song because, whenever I listened to it, it never fails to fill my heart with love, my heart swells since I know you don’t feel the same way about me. It’s amazing how music can affect out emotions so strongly and how it has the astonishing ability to take me back instantly to a certain moment, a certain ‘lovely’ moment just within mili-seconds.
These days I’m always ill. These days, I’m always sleeping and these days, I’m always thinking about you. I am forced to spend endless hours in the hospital waiting room and countless hours being examined by various doctors. The same ritual being performed again after many months. My whole body aches as though a car has run over me and feeling so tired as if I have run a marathon.As I lay on my hospital bed, I write and write and never stop writing so that I could prove myself that I’m not feeling tired, that I can actually do normal things now.Writing is my passion, my dark passion. When I write,I feel free and strangely satisfied, as it brings out my true self most precisely. Let me tell you something weird; I am addicted to words just like you are addicted to music. Words are beautiful, powerful and expressive, thus one should be careful when they throw them around. When I’m writing short romantic stories, I make the heroin strong, pretty and healthy so I could just pretend to be one of them when I’m daydreaming. In my daydreams, you are always my prince in the shining armour and I am always your princess and we live happily ever after.
It’s been ten days and you don’t visit me but you simply text me ‘’Get well soon”. If only I could get well “soon”. I wish your genuine wish would come true, but I wish you could come and see me, maybe it could at least cure my heart? I write you many, many letters, but I can never send you, because the little voice inside my head says that you don’t think of me in that way. I keep them hidden inside my flowery journal to give you, if you ever come. I keep waiting. I count hours ,minutes and seconds, but you never come. I wait and wait but you never come. I call you but you never answer. I text you but you never reply.
If you come, maybe we could watch a movie together. Maybe we could go to the park or grab a coffee. Maybe we could lie on grass and count the stars. Maybe we could kiss under the lamp post just outside my house. Maybe we could confess our love. Maybe. Just maybe. That’s only if you come
Days are passing and I am feeling more and more tired that I am unable to stay awake for more than two hours. I wake up after hours, feeling as though an eternity has gone but actually only few hours had passed. I stare at myself in the hospital bathroom mirror and I want to run screaming all the way to my house, but I stay strong. It’s time for me to be one of my heroins, the ones that I write about. I am pale, extremely pale that my veins are visible on my forehead and eyelids, which makes my under eye bags dangerously pronounced. All these turn into minor details when I notice my biggest horror. Missing patches of hair. I don’t want to cry but I feel warm tears are streaming down my cheeks. I sit on the bathroom floor and curl myself into a tight ball.I don’t want to die. Not yet.