Q And A Session: Part II

It sure has been a long time since the last Q and A session, and also people have become even more curious about the storyteller. Before we start, here are somethings you should know:
1. The questions are not edited.
2. The name of the persons who have asked have been included with the questions, however names of people who have mailed or personally messaged me have been classified as ‘Anonymous’ to protect their privacy.

Current song playing: Adam Jensen – Sandcastles (ToWonder x Severo Remix)
Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJWRtYPzHy0

 

Lets begin:

1. When you wake up every morning, what makes you believe it will be a good day? What completes your day? When are you planning on coming to ghy? Do u still stay up late?  Preetam Raaj

Answer:

Hello there, curious cat. Okay *breathes*

First of, mornings are not my friend. I snooze 10 times through the alarms and still miss my commute to college. My parents will throw stuff at me until I either wake up completely or die. So basically, when the above situations are all false and I do wake up on time, and certain messages from a certain someone, adds the perfect topping on my day.

Food. Hands down, it’s food. If i could I would sleep on packets of food all day. ❤
Foodbaeeeee!

Guwahati is home, I can come there tonight, tomorrow anytime, any day. B)

The longest I’ve been up is uptill 4am, reading buzzfeed 5 months ago. :3

There! You’re all set.

2.  wats de wecomended amount of dedotaed wam i sud have fo survr ? Abhi Nash

*Plain words on a pretty background makes sense*

3. What’s your favorite song and fav fictional character? Malisha Dutta

Being a 90’s kid, this is probably my favorite song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZYGzkKMcRU

As for fictional characters, there’s only one that fictional character who never left my mind: OLIVER, from Off The Pages. ❤

4. Do you think that Hanna Barbera set the bars for children’s animation in 1957? Ritam Mukherjee

*drops a bomb*

*Hanna Barbera did not set the bars of the children animation. I feel this statement is highly overrated. Leon Schesinger is a much better example of a pioneer of the animation industry. I’m not saying Hanna Barbera was bad or anything. It’s just that animation started way back starting something new is the big thing. If you see few years down the line, Hayao Miyazaki started a way. The animation was never depicted, but then it’s all just my personal opinion.*

5.  Is Chotta Bheem really Rahul Gandhi’s favourite carton, I am saying he is more of a Ben 10 guy. Abhi Nash

I refrain from talking about any political characters, no matter how much I’d like to.

Bail me if I get sent to jail.

6. When are you coming to guwahati? When is Masked 2.0 coming? How do you tackle the urge to pause writing and watch one more episode of that one more series? Your recent food favorite? (This came as a message) Anonymous

 Tell your mommy to start cooking butter chicken, I will sell my kidneys and fly to you. ❤ :*

MASKED 2.0. *awkward silence*

I have two eyes, so I keep one eye on writing and one eye on the episode, taking multitasking to a whole new level. ❤

Recent food favorite:

I live, breathe and eat DORITOS.

THE FOLLOWING IMAGE IS NSFW:

:p

7. Ever fantasized about me? Anonymous

I did not fantasize about you. But I’m sure we have dreams about each other a lot. :*
I miss you 😦

 

So this kinda wraps it up, for now. I’m sorry if I missed any question. If i did give me a nudge and I’ll add them here. You have been real sporty and I’m sorry it took so long to put up!
You’re the best! I love ya’ll. ❤

Writing would define me.

I would be very informal with this, compared to my other posts/stories. The only reason why I’m doing this is because I feel that writing, my writing, my blogs should be personal. My readers should be able to interact with a very vulnerable side of me that they usually may never get to interact me. I think of this as a new form of writing for me. Testing the waters if I may say so.

So, writing. For others it may seem like ink running across paper or pressing words in the keyboard. For me, it’s almost like the ink making love to the paper. It may sound creepy to some, but it’s beyond magical to me. I love how the smooth tip of the pen brushes across the rough skin of the paper, leaving a trail of beautiful thoughts etched in it’s blank canvas. The paper does not just remain a piece of paper after that, it is reborn as a piece of art, a piece of the person who wrote on it, and that, that is exactly what defines me as a person I am.

A lot of my readers don’t know who I am, for them – I like to think this way that, I am the one painting images in their mind every time they read a word that i wrote. For some, I pose as an inspiration, for some an escape from the general life, for some a reason to read and observe the world from a perspective that is not their own.  To them I am a writer. To them I am a magician and that is who I am.

I am not defined by the name my parents gave me, I am not defined by the deeds that I do, I am not defined by my job status. I am but, at the end of the day defined by the ‘Ooh’s’, the ‘Ah’s’ the countless ‘sighs’ of my readers.

People say it’s our ‘Karma’ that defines who we truly are, and the number of connections we made, the hearts we touched on our way that will in the end define us. But i feel, when it’s my time to leave, a certain ‘Sigh’ emerging from the realization that certain stories will thus cease to exist, that the minds will not create any more mystical images of far off lands, that the heart will not flutter at the death’s of fictional characters every now and then. It will thus be my words that would be etched in the memories of everyone I touch.

xxxxxxx

Now that you’ve reached so far, I’m sorry for being MIA for such a long time but I will be lurking around for some more time before making a proper comeback. Until then if you’re in my Facebook list, there’s a Q and A session going on, the answers to which will all be posted here on 20.02.2017. If you’re not on my list, you can also drop your questions here, on twitter, on ask.fm or even mail me with the tag #QNA
I hope to receive your questions soon.

The Woman In Red.

I’ve known Tim since high school, we were the perfect couple. He was the perfect man, he had a special power, a power not many can harness. He could build images in monochrome, in a canvas as white as the sky just with his favorite black ink pen. He could write lines at a stretch and leave you in a place, as magical as his words themselves. I remember he wrote me a story about a young girl who lived in the meadows. She grew roses in her garden, and loved her horses. Even though I never confes tose, I still dream about the little girl from his story. I dream about every character he wrote and every story he spoke.

But one day, they stopped. The stories stopped building. I’ve never seen Tim so frustrated about something he loved so dearly. I picked up crumbles of paper every morning as he left for work, pages filled with beautiful descriptions about a girl in a red dress. I wonder why he discarded them;

‘She was a sight to behold, swirling around in the red dress, red as fresh blood, red as the rose petals she caressed with her feet. Her smile enough to kill. She was gorgeous, and I was her willing victim.’ 

It took me a while to figure out, the 9 to 5 job he confined himself in, killed his passion. He was a writer stuck playing with money, in an industry with no happy endings.
I missed his stories. I knew somewhere inside he did too. I couldn’t let him destroy whatever little of his passion he still kept alive inside his heart.

I have always been a housewife, when I think about it now, that wasn’t something I chose. I just fell into it and accepted it as my fate. My attempts at reigniting Tim’s stories, led me to the path of becoming one. I became the ‘Woman In Red.’ Every night when he would come home from work, I would enact a part of the plot he wrote the night before, crumbled into a ball of paper. At times I would see the shimmer in his eyes, as he would lock himself in the study for hours, writing. On other days, ‘The Woman In Red.’ caused him pain as he reminisced about his failures. It’s been 6 months, 6 months and 120 different plot twists. I was tired. I wanted to quit.

Tim wasn’t his usual self today, there was something odd about him. He did not sleep the night before and did not leave for work. He just locked himself in his study, scribbling.

Late afternoon I heard him come out, his eyes looked tired but his face had the familiar smile of satisfaction. Oh how I missed it. My eyes followed him as he knelt in front of me, ‘Thank you, I owe this to you.’ handing out the 354 paged manuscript of ‘THE WOMAN IN RED.’ He finally did it, he wrote.

That night, I read and dreamt the story just like I used to and for the first time in 6 months, I saw Tim be happy and satisfied about his story.
It’s been a year since ‘The Woman In Red.’ hit the stores. Tim left his 9 to 5 job, for good so he could focus on things he valued the most. I chose to become a teacher, narrating the stories I’ve always heard.

By far, this had been the best story Tim wrote. OUR STORY.

A/N: All characters in this story are fictional and bear no resemblance to anyone living or dead. If they do, it’s puerly coincidental.

Broken Record.

She kept on dancing to the tunes of his words,
hung on them like they were stars.
He knew her love was crystal,
So he continued playing her like a broken record.

She moved and waltzed side by side,
he looked at her with eyes that spelt lust.
He touched her being, stopping her from time to time.
She shook a little with every touch he made, withered a little and broke a little.

She thought she was on a roller coaster, enjoying it as it went.
But she was nothing but a broken record he played.
She danced day in and night out,
to the tune of his words, not knowing what lay ahead in a cold, ruthless world.

The tunes went hard, her dance haphazard.
She missed tunes and fell, not realising that the song was about to end.
She danced with poise, trying to keep up,
but his tunes were missing, he was fading away.

When one fine morning, she heard no tune.
The broken record lay on the floor, scratches on it that burnt her body.
She twisted in pain, but continued to dance,
Dance to the dead and fading memories of the tunes he once sang.

Picture Credits: http://favim.com/image/1328911/

Catastrophe.

I want him out of my brain. Why is he even there? He’s everywhere, even when I’m high and intoxicated I see him. His deep black eyes peering through me, burning my insides. All of this feels so real, his gaze so powerful that it can see right through me, see inside me, see my dark charcoal heart beating relentlessly.
Even when I let out the puff of white smoke, it feels as though he’s gasping inside me, making me cough. What’s wrong with me? He sets red warnings whenever he’s around me, yet I feel so drawn to him. He’s dangerous to me, but I can’t stop thinking about his ruffled hair. The way he moistens his lips before talking. I slip into oblivion whenever we’re together. Nothing else matters, nothing else ever mattered.

He knows the lyrics to my favorite song. He remembers why I hate going to college, even though I told him the reason 8 months back. He remembers my birthday, when I forgot all about it. His words are my favourite tunes, his voice my melody.

He twists a strand of my hair and puts it behind my ear as he gazes into my brown eyes, he says he loves so much. Something I can never come to terms with. He knows how I like my coffee, extra sweet. He’s everything I read about in the books, but now he’s real. He holds my hand tightly in the crowd, he knows crowds scare me.

He’s everything I have always wanted in a person, but he..he deserves better, so much better than me. He doesn’t need a girl wrapped in smoke, dancing with the devils from the past. He deserves better, but everytime I think about him with another girl, my heart starts burning.  I can’t let go of him, and he doesn’t want to let go of me. He’s going to ruin me, and I’m going to eventually burn him and he’s okay with that, as long as it’s me. He has a reason, a logic to explain everything. He sat outside the hospital room at 3 AM when the world came crashing down around me, when nobody else was there for me. He held my hand on days, I couldn’t get out of my bed.

But I’m destroying him, ‘how can you love someone who destroys you?’

‘Because I’d rather die with you, than die without you.’

I was not hallucinating, he stood in front of me smiling. I felt a certain warmth inside my body, inside my heart and for the first time in years I did not want to push him away, my heart did not push him away.

‘Why didn’t you just give up and leave?’

‘You don’t give up on the people you love, you hold on to them no matter what and you hold tight, because you know they complete you in ways you cannot explain.’

‘Maybe that’s why you were not scared of the demons inside of me.’

‘Maybe my demons just danced well with yours.’ 

Travelling back to the time I loved Fairy Tales.

“She believes in me, and if someone believes in you wholeheartedly, you start to believe in yourself as well.” 

Last week, I bought a book from the store. It didn’t look too extraordinary or anything etched on top of one of the shelves, I felt I had to just pick it up. This may sound wrong to some but I always judge books by their covers, just books though. Nothing special there as well, a blue book with the words ‘Off The Page’ etched on top in glitter (Yes, real glitter), but what really made me smile was the feeling I got when I saw the cover image:

The first thing that struck me, was that this was going to be a fantasy novel (and I don’t really like fantasies). The cover image looked really cute, and had that fairy talish vibe I couldn’t let go, so I held it and flipped it to see what it was all about (the summary) :

‘Meant for each other…
Meet Oliver, a prince literally taken from the pages of a fairy tale and transported into the real world, Meet Delilah, the girl who wished Oliver into being. It’s a miracle that seems perfect at first- but there are complications. T0 exist in Delilah’s world, Oliver must take the place of a regular boy. Enter Edgar, who agrees to play Oliver’s role in the pages of Delilah’s favorite book.
But just when it seems that the plan will work, everything gets turned upside down. In this multilayered universe, the line between what’s on the page and what’s possible is blurred. Is there a way for everyone to live happily ever after?’

I’d be very honest when I first read the summary, I had numerous conflicting thoughts.I had the feeling that this story would be very challenging to understand (I was wrong), but it was too late and I was standing near the billing counter with the book in hand.

I did not put the book down, I held it in my hand and started reading the words while waiting for my train (never do that), with every word that I read, I got drawn into this whole new world. I needed to escape reality and it was like the perfect portal for me.

The book alters the reality in a sweet and soft way, in a way that you’d feel connected and actually consider the impossible without losing your mind. The characters are sweet, and very relatable. The last time I read about a charming prince in a far-away land, dragons, fairies, witches and mermaids were when I was a kid and my mother got me Peter Pan and Cinderella stories. Off The Page, lets you relive those childhood feelings in a more matured way. I can surely say this is a fairy tale for the young adult. 

The book is going to make you question why you stopped believing in happy endings and fairy tales in the first place. You’ll be awestruck at the giddy feeling you feel inside you, the ones you felt when you read your first fairy tale. When I started off with it, I got so addicted to it, nothing else mattered. I kept reading word by word, smiling ear to ear, crying whenever something went wrong in the story and by the time I was done with the book, I wanted to go back to Page 43 (You’d know the significance of the page if you’re familiar with the story) all over again.

The book not only brought childhood memories, but made me realise a very important fact –
‘Everyone has a story.
You might think it’s not worth telling, but then again, it’s a story no one has ever heard. What you do, what you say, how you carry the plot, just might leave a mark on someone.
Because that’s what stories do. They help you escape, and they give you the chance to do things you never imagined you would or could. They let you feel heartbreak you’ve never had and experience adventures from the safety of your own room. They are dreams for those who are still awake. They can be as comfortable as an old pair of slippers or as unnerving as the blade of a knife. They possess the power to change you, to inspire you, to open your mind. 
Stories are all around us, caught in the throats of the strangers you walk past and scrawled on the pages of locked diaries, They’re in love letters that were never sent and between the lines of every conversation ever spoken. Just because your story isn’t written down doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. 
Perhaps someone is reading your story right now, in fact- imagining your eyes skimming over this page, your hands clutching the binding as you hurry to get to0 the last line.
You’d best get going. Your reader is eagerly awaiting the next chapter.’ – Off The Page (Page 372).

*Off The Page is actually a sequel as well as a stand alone novel of the book Between The Lines, by Jodi Picoult and Samantha Van Leer. I’ll put up the Flipkart and Amazon links of both the books. 🙂

Between The Lines: a) https://www.flipkart.com/between-the-lines/p/itmeyezr2d6xjrb2?otracker=product_breadCrumbs_Between+the+Lines+%28Paperback%29
b) http://www.amazon.in/Between-Lines-Jodi-Picoult/dp/1444740997/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1471856903&sr=8-2&keywords=between+the+lines

Off The Page: a) https://www.flipkart.com/off-the-page/p/itme9fsjmgbxhacu?pid=9781473614291&srno=s_1_1&otracker=search&lid=LSTBOK97814736142911PL3UZ&qH=2251f7999f1f2f15
b) http://www.amazon.in/Off-Page-General-Literary-Fiction/dp/1473614295/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1471856986&sr=8-1-fkmr0&keywords=off+the+page+jodi+picoult

 

Dear BestFriend.

Dear Best friend,

I know it’s been a long time since I said this to you, but I really miss you and I miss you a lot. I know you’ve been waiting for your phone to light up with that one text that I never sent, and I’m really sorry.
I know you’ve been dying to tell me all about that cute guy you met at Art class, but you didn’t want to disturb me. I’m sorry you had to feel that way. You’ve been there for me at when it was 3 AM in the morning and the boy I gave my heart to, broke it and ran away. You consoled me, giving up your sleep. I’m sorry you feel we drifted apart.

Best friend, I know you’ve been meaning to talk to me now that we live far away, oceans and mountains separating us physically and we don’t get to see each other as often as we want to, but I hope you know. I miss you. I hope you know, I’m always here for you. I hope you know, you’re never alone that you always have me around.

Best Friend, I’m sorry you had to feel replaced by new people in my life but I hope you know, nobody can take your place in my life. You’ll always be the one I call up, when the world around me crashes down. You’ll always be the one I talk to, when I’m in cloud 15. You’ll always be the one I call, when I’m scared of certain decisions I have to take, cause I know talking to you is going to make everything better.

I hate the fact that we’re so far apart, I hate the fact that I have to see you through the screen everytime we talk. I hate it all, and I’d trade the world to be near you, to hold your hands and listen to all the things you hid behind those dark rimmed spectacles ever since I left.

Best Friend, we may have grown up, we may not be in the same place or maybe even in the same page right now. But it’s alright, you still hold the same place in my heart like you did those many years ago, and I really hope you’d forgive me for all those special moments of your life that I missed. I hope you’d forgive me for all those times when you spammed my inbox and I just looked at it and left. I hope you’d forgive me for the times I was not around when all you needed was me. I’m sorry.

As I write these words I’m looking at my phone and I know what I need to do. You’re not forgotten, Best Friend. I’m nothing without you and I love you. ❤

Love from miles away,
BestFriend.

P.S: I’m Sorry

Dear Julie,

“The starry nights, they call your name,
I look up and hold back my tears, for you were mine.”

Robert wished us, Happy Anniversary. It’s strange isn’t it? How the time passed us by, just like the wind. I’m making dinner tonight, just like the good old days. When you held the wine glass in your slender hands, putting that unruly strand of hair behind your ear, sitting on the porch talking to me.
I noticed everything, Julie. I’m sorry, I could never say you these things to you before.

It was our third anniversary. I remember how you decorated the house and urged me not to be late that night, because you had a surprise for me. Julie, I had a surprise too. I had a little box in the drawer where I kept my socks, I was going to make you mine for eternity. I remember how you cooked me breakfast, pancakes and coffee. I cannot forget even if I want to how your eyes lit up after you kissed me that morning, it was just like the fireworks on the 4th of July. You held my hand and said that you loved me, but I was quiet. I don’t know why.

I guess, I wanted to save everything I had for that night. I saw your face fall down, never in 3 years have I not replied to you when you said that you loved me. You thought I changed but Julie, I didn’t. I was planning for the surprise. I was planning for the big night.

You brought me the first gift of the day, a tie. You remembered when I told you some two years back how much I loved ties, I wanted to cry. It was special. You helped me wear it and said I looked dashing. I believed I did. I knew you were eager to get something in return as well, but Julie, I had it all saved for that night. I kissed you Goodbye, as I left home. I could see you waving at me, sending me kisses through the glass window that separated us. I smiled, I smiled throughout the day.

You sent me sweet messages, I regret not replying to them. I’m sorry, Julie. I was stuck at work. You sent me messages reminding me to come home soon. I wanted to Julie. I wanted to  hold you in my arms and say that I love you. I wanted to come home sooner so I could get on my knees and propose to you. But Julie, Drake had a daughter and wanted to celebrate. There was still time. I thought I’d make it. I really thought so, Julie.

It was 9pm, you kept calling me. I was drunk, I couldn’t pick up your phone. I told them I had to go, for it was my anniversary, Julie. But I lost my keys and I couldn’t come home. I knew you’d be worried. I knew you’d be disappointed at me. I’m sorry, Julie. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to you sooner.

You called me again, this time I answered. You were upset, because I was drunk. You asked me where I was so you could come pick me up, I told you the address and waited. I’m sorry, Julie. I shouldn’t have lost my keys.  It was 11:30pm, Robert and Drake stayed back, we were talking. I was getting worried, you were not here yet. I got a call, Julie. I got a call from the police. They asked me if I knew you, I was nervous. They told me your car crashed on the highway.

Julie, I told Robert to take me to the hospital you were taken to. He did. I prayed, Julie, for the first time in years I called out to him. I called out. You were breathing when we got there, Julie. You were breathing through a machine. Your skin, pale and bruised. I’m sorry, Julie. I made you go through a lot. They told me to sign a form, so they could take your body out of life-support. I was very angry, Julie. How could they call you a body? You were not dead. You were alive. I held your hand and I swear I felt you hold it back. But the doctors said I was crazy and told me to go home. I’m sorry, Julie. Please come back.

You decorated our house, with scented candles. It smelt of you. I dropped on the ground and cried. What was I without you, Julie? I ate the dinner that you made for us, alone. I drank the wine, you loved. Alone. I opened my sock drawer and took the box out, I bought the ring for you Julie. I still have it, it has your name etched in it. It will forever be for you.

It’s been 15 years, 15 lonely anniversaires that i celebrated. I left another letter that I wrote to you on your grave, I will put this letter tomorrow. I left drinking, Julie. I left it for good. But every anniversary I sit on the porch and drink your favorite wine. Julie, had it not been for that fateful night, had it not been for my sheer stupidity you’d have been here by my side. I look at your picture, everyday and say the things I didn’t say when you were alive. I miss you, Julie. I miss you a lot.

Nothing is the same without you, I’m not the same without you. I love you, Julie. I always will.

P.S: I’m sorry for that night.

Truly Yours,
Samuel

He was Fire, She was a Hurricane.

I always found it fascinating, how certain things just click. How certain things just fall into place, just like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle completing each other, existing together. 

I often wonder why hurricanes are named after people, then I look inside of me and I realise we are all storms. There’s a storm raging inside all of us, some big, some small. Some sweep everything that comes in their way, just like a tornado. Destroying everything in its sights , trying to make it’s mark. Some are like hurricane’s, strong and persistent, devastating and dangerous. 

Sometimes I wonder, what would happen if a tornado met a hurricane? Would they join together as one, empowering one another, or would they clash and burn like fire?

The hurricane loves fiercely, her love will rip you apart, take away your everything, leave you bare and cold, at the same time her touch would ignite the tornado burning inside your heart, she will sway you back and forth admist her strong winds until you let go of the tornado building up inside you. 

The tornado, he has no path. He’s devastating and magnificent, he loves his storm, he loves his hurricane. But when he meets her, when he touches her, it’s a disaster. He continues swaying her as she dances inside his spiraling vortex, until she’s empty. Consumed into the tornado, clutching to him like her life depended on it, but the tornado swirling away into the unknown throws her away from him into the atmosphere. 

The hurricane, spends her last moments looking for his touch, looking for answers before she becomes one with nothingness.

Now I know why hurricane’s are named after people, why they behave the way they do, people try telling her that not all storms are the same, but how do you explain, that not all fires burn the same to someone whose been burnt so much?

I called her, Adaline.

“She used to come sit in the same park bench, every saturday. She held books each different from the one she held before. She carried the same smile, every morning. I didn’t know her name, didn’t know who she was, didn’t know where she lived. I called her, Adaline.”

I visited the community park every Saturday morning, just to see her. I never liked parks and places brimming with too much energy. It scared me, but when I got a glimpse of her deep brown eyes I felt a strange calmness. She never noticed me, never will. She wore colourful dresses whenever she visited the park, every Saturday brought in a new hue, a new pattern, a new book she held in her hand.

I didn’t know her name, didn’t know who she was, didn’t know where she lived. All I knew was that she brought with her a certain aura that was almost impossible to ignore. I called her, Adaline (Nobel). She stirred in me a certain urge to write, such was her aura. I started bringing a small diary along with me and wrote things that I liked about her. I always kept going back to the way her eyes shone in the bright sunny mornings, the way her lips curved whenever she lifted her face to look at the kids play in the swing. She was truly beautiful. I did not want to purse her. I liked how we were, strangers.

She used to come sit in the same park bench, every saturday. She held books each different from the one she held before. She carried the same smile, every morning. On days when I refused to smile even a bit, looking at her face changed everything. She was like a breath of fresh air to me.

Summer left and autumn began, the leaves started changing colours, everything around me changed. Adaline stopped visiting the park on Saturday’s. I walked around the park every day, in hopes of seeing her but she never came. It was the last saturday of Autumn, I saw someone dressed in the same floral dress as Adaline, my heart raced fast. I missed her. I kept looking towards the park bench, the empty park bench the girl left behind. I realised it wasn’t Adaline. Adaline left. I walked towards the empty park bench, in hopes of finding her again. I closed my eyes and breathed in the Autumn air, the one which lacked Adaline. I decided to leave, the park did not feel the same without her. I felt tiny hands pull my fingers as I proceeded to leave the park.

‘Are you a friend of Miss. Sara?’ the little kid asked.
I realised he was talking about Adaline.
‘Yes.’
‘Miss. Sara is very sick, she asked me to give you this. She also told me she would like to see the things you wrote in your diary someday.’ The little kid, handed me the book Adaline was reading the last time I saw her.
‘Thank you, do you know where she lives?’
‘Yes, she lives right around the corner of the street near the church.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, sir.’

I couldn’t have been happier, she noticed me. Now that I think about it, it all fits. I decided to go meet her. I got a few roses and made my way towards the church. Her house looked empty and locked. I decided to wait at the porch for her.

‘Are you the man from the park?’ An old lady walked towards me.
‘Yes, I’m looking for Miss. Sara.’

I could see her smile disappearing as she called me inside the church. Things were not looking too good as I felt a sense of sadness engulf me.

‘Sara, she spread happiness everywhere she went. She was fighting a battle so grim, she hid her pain in her smile, she found happiness in the way people smiled when they looked at her. She told us about you, the man she saw at the park. When she first saw you, you looked sad and lonely. Then when you started noticing her, you smiled, you started writing, you looked happy.’

‘I was happy.’

‘She passed away, with the first leaf that fell from the tree. She had Cancer.’

The world around me shattered, I found it hard to believe that someone as cheery as her was fighting something so big. I held her book in my hand tighter. I came here to give it back to her, but I was going to keep it close to me as a remembrance of the woman, as a remembrance of my Adaline.

It’s been 3 years since I last saw that smile, since I last went to the community park. I came to meet her, every saturday and left a note on her grave, of all the times that she made me smile, of all the times that she inspired me. She touched my life in a way I could never forget. I miss her still.

She’s etched to my memory like an unforgettable song.