Why is it that we don't always recognize the moment love begins,
but we always recognize the moment it ends?
He would fly day
after tomorrow, to a land far away from this city - where we first met, this
city - which is a witness to our coming together, this city – which would
always be a part of our indelible memory, this city – which will continue to
nourish many such stories only to stub them later before they bloom. It didn’t come
as a shock when he informed me of his decision yesterday for sooner or later
this was to happen. What was shocking was my mood thereafter. The news hit
harder than the punch of a boxer and shriller than the pinch of a needle. I had
never held on to him…
Then why was it hurting to let go?
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