“I’ll wait.” I’ve been telling her since the past twenty days. Truthfully, I’ve been telling myself this for these excruciating, painful, empty, and bleak twenty days.

There’s love. There’s love because I remember her face when she said “Later.” I remember how amazed I was in that moment— by her randomness. A trait I adore. Countless cities await the imprints of her beautiful feet alongside mine. I’ll etch that word in those cities with my bare hands as she etches those memories in my heart.

There’s love. There’s love because she wants me to ruin her, but stay with her after I’m done. There’s love because I made her cry on 13th and asked her after a few minutes—at the stroke of midnight—“Will you be my Valentine’s, my luv?”. There’s love because I’ll probably end up killing her.

There’s love. There’s love because I’ll watch her move her hips when she cooks for me. I’ll watch her quirks, I’ll listen to her songs, and I’ll watch her stir—the highest kind of poetry. I’ll notice if she does anything strange——amused—I’ll note it down.

There’s love. There’s love because my heart will ache again. She will be confused. She won’t know what to do, and she’ll end up doing what I love. She’ll sit beside me and say absolutely nothing. She won’t be my cure—but she’ll hold me as I die, slowly.

There’s love. There’s love because I’ll have to hide the stabs again. I despise sympathy. There’s love because I’ll be irritated. She’ll be angry. She won’t understand. I’ll smile, concealing the pain. She’ll smile back, concealing the concern.

There’s love. There’s love because I loathe everything that reminds me of her and everything that doesn’t. I smile at the reminders now that I know she’s so close. They’ll still be reminders. Reminders of those bleak 22 days. I’ll hold them close to my heart.

There’s love. There’s love because I’m reminded of her and it’s raining outside. I love the rain because it makes me contemplate my decisions. I love the rain because I see tiny, gentle raindrops falling on the ground as the yellow light reflects on the puddle. Beneath her tiny fingers, me—under a giant cloud with all the world’s rain falling gently.

There’s love. There’s love because I went through another difficult test in my life. The fact that I’m still alive tells me I did well. I’m fucking good at tests. But this Aazmaish, this dreadful fast, even though I had food and water, felt like I was almost always close to death. My death—My luv.

There’s love. There’s love because I know when I get feverish nowadays. I don’t wait for her to tell me I have fever. She’ll find out if I’m okay or not, instantly, or sometimes not at all—I admire her ability to nurture, and her ability to miss out on the obvious. I love her through all of that—like I loved her in those seven days.

There’s love. There’s love because I’m keeping to myself. I’m keeping what makes me upset, I’m keeping my problems inside, and I’m keeping this longing for her love in my heart. Through all of this, I laughed —like a man. I smiled— like a friend. I pretended— like a sane fool. All this while I yearned her presence.

There’s love. There’s love because I realised how I had to change my routine. I got up early. I went to coffee alone. I didn’t have an appetite. I didn’t need to tell her to breathe. I wasn’t her fuel. I wasn’t my own fuel. The days were certain, they lacked meaning. But I worked with intensity, and that’s all I could do.

There’s love. There’s love because I wrote like a lunatic in these past 20 days. I let her read some of my writing. I was intrigued to what know she had to say about it. I loved guessing what her favourite line was— it was extremely difficult. I wrote in nostalgia. There’s love because I will pour my heart into her pen so that every inked word she writes smells of me.

There’s love. There’s love because it was painful. It stung. Because she was a coward again. Because I understood. Because she didn’t. She was difficult, I was suffering and I loved her more, every passing second.

There’s love. There’s love because I’m impatient to have her on the sofa. I want one of my hands under her neck, the other one (almost) choking her to death. I want her to laugh again, while I rub my feet inside the blanket. I camped on this sofa during all these days. I hate the extra space though, while I sleep. I wish she comes soon so that I have nowhere to turn but towards her.

There’s love. There’s love because I want to stop on the streets again, at random times. I want to let go of her hand so that she goes towards the puppies. It’s been long since her puppy got treats. He’s waiting for that extra space to snuggle in. He’s waiting for her to shove him inside her body.

There’s love. There’s love because I climb up and down the daunting stairs every day and remember where exactly I’ve sat her down multiple times. I want to take the elevator with her again. I want to sing that song to her, after we’re done being distracted.

There’s love. There’s love because I get those old nightmares sometimes. I wake up in the middle of the night due to the frenzy fever dreams, to find she’s not here. I want her in all of my fever dreams. So that I can lean on her. So that we can visit all those cities. So that we can kiss in the middle of nowhere.

There’s love. There’s love because I rage again. I listen to old Nirvana albums and lose myself. I told her before—come, as you are. I kept that vinyl away because she’s not here to listen to it with me. She’s my Nirvana. The word and the fucking album.

There’s love. There’s love because I wish I could tell her about home. I don’t know what home is anymore. Willing to leave a piece of it back home, my heart yearns the escape again. That hole. And she’s not here to fill it up even a little bit.

There’s love. There’s love because everything is empty without her. The people around me don’t understand. Nobody really does. But I could be myself around her. The elevator, this sofa, this water bottle, my cigarette boxes, this balcony, these chairs, wishes and wants and all the dilemmas. Empty.

There’s love. There’s love because I smoke more now. She’s that sacred. I could write novels describing my love for her but I can describe her love and longing in one line—I smoke. I smoke thinking about her. I go through a pack daily. Even two on difficult days. Food, water, and sleep—Everything turned on me, but my cigarettes stayed loyal.

There’s love. There’s love because it was never chance. It was never probability. Nobody made it happen. There are no concepts to explain this. I willed her love. Fuck the concepts and the theories. I’ll love her myself. I will love her with every bit of conscience I was born with. While I’m at it, fuck probability, too. I fucking love her and no equation or label will suffice for that love.

There’s love. There’s love because I still feel like I’m the worst person in the world when it gets dark. I feel lonely, even when I’m surrounded by people. And I feel overwhelmed even when it’s quiet around me. That clamour. She calms it down just by a touch of her fingertips on my neck.

There’s love. There’s love because I look forward to owning animals with her. I look forward to naming them all. I look forward to choose my favourites, and keeping it a secret so she doesn’t compete. I look forward to watch that plot of a grand play in front of me. A play full of playful animals and a compassionate little girl.

There’s love. There’s love because she shuts me down with her hands. I’ll buy her roses. I’ll call her from work. I’ll open doors for her all my life, and I’ll show my love for her in my eyes. My rose—I’ll hold her heart tightly in my hands, as I let the thorns cut me deep, and we’ll laugh at my bloodied hands, watching the petals fall on the ground.

There’s love. There’s love because I keep sitting in the Sun. And I keep mocking the moon everyday. “I have a prettier one”, I keep telling the moon, as it’s shying away from that taunt behind a cloud. She’s my moon. And I’m her Sitaara. With you, my moon, I’ll set with you.

There’s love. There’s love because I want to peel pomegranates for her. I want her to be healthy, I want her to prosper like a lively flower she is. I want to be strict on her when she’s not careful, and attentive. I want to prove the theory right, throughout my life.

There’s love. There’s love because I’m egotistical. And so is she. Because I’m suicidal. And so is she. Because I notice patterns, and unknowingly, sometimes, so does she. I’m hopeful because I’ve found her. I’m hopeful.

There’s love. There’s love because I hate going for coffee alone. I hate having to talk to myself. I want those pointless, no-filter conversations again. I want to shoo away the pigeons and get her mind off of them. I want those 2-4-6 cigs again. I want coffee to taste the same again. And of course, that question in the night before we sleep again, “Coffee?”

There’s love. There’s love because I have to write a novel about her slender hands. A chapter about her (right) green veins. A page about her pearly nails. A paragraph about her graceful wrists. And a line about her hands again—“The gods will look at me with respectful envy if I get to draw my last breath in her arms.” I want to die by her side.

There’s love. There’s still love because I want her to click my silly 0.5x pictures again. Those look ups when I’m eating. Those videos when I’m sitting in her lap, chugging M&Ms. I want to document my days with her, and my nights in her.

And There’s love. There’s still love because I want her. There’s still love because I’ll probably end up killing her. And she’ll probably end up killing me.

Even if she grips a knife with both her hands and twists my insides, I’ll still adore her, knowing maybe my love wasn’t sufficient.