Love Always | ✓

we are twenty five

virat's side! hope you like it! thanks for sticking by me so far!

0 4

WHEN VIRAT WAS SEVEN YEARS, three months and three days old, he saw how colorful Misha who could make her life with the sun and a simple plastic ruler. She was the new girl in the neighbourhood, and he remembered how he had dropped the kit-kat she was eating yesterday. Smiling to himself, he twirled the pencil through which he was writing - making patters on the paper with the rainbow bequeathing. He rambles off the word, -

S O R R Y :(

- on the paper, and tears away the page from his notebook. Again glancing back in her direction, he saw how she wasn't playing her ruler anymore; in fact she twirled her pencil between her fingers, her sad eyes fixed on the open notebook in front of her. And the next moment, he saw how her eyes - lovely brown, like freshly ploughed earth, like chocolate, like bitter coffee - lit up and twinkled. The same moment, her pencil finally met the paper; the words flowing beautifully and Virat realized that Misha looked so beautiful while she was writing, something which she probably enjoyed.

He silently sauntered towards her bench, and gave her the note. Misha unfolded the paper neatly, and saw that he was apologizing for yesterday. "You could've just told me," she told him smilingly, "It's okay. I hardly minded. I knew it wasn't intentional."

"Friends then?" Virat grinned.

Misha shrugged cheekily, "Friends and all is cool, but you still owe me a kitkat."

At that, both of them burst into fits of giggles.

0 3

WHEN VIRAT WAS THIRTEEN YEARS, one month and twenty four days old, he realized what love was. It was the sinking sensation in the pit of your stomach when the person is so close, and still so far. It was the slow-burn in your heart when you hear their agonizing sobs. It was all the ruckus in your brain, and the fear in your gut when you're standing outside the door, and shouting, "open the goddamn door," and no one answers.

Virat barged the door once again, but all his attempts going futile. "Misha, don't you freaking dare do anything reckless, okay? Just open the door."

Misha didn't answer. She knew talking to him would make her resolve weak. So Virat had no option; he broke the door open, and the next scene he saw makes his heart drop to the pit of his stomach. A cut on her wrist, blood mattered on her hand, on her dress, on the foor, everywhere. He had never seen so much blood in his life. "Fuck, Misha -"

Guilt washed over Misha when she realized what she had done. She had cut herself. She had slashed her own wrist. She had tried to commit suicide.

Bursting in tears, Virat picked up Misha in her arms, and laid her on the bed. Blood was still oozing out of the cut. Biting back his tears, he pressed the hand-towel lying on the bed to her wrist. The white of the material shadows under the crimson of her blood as he wondered; was she always thinking of suicide in her sub-conscious mind?

"I'm fine, Virat. It needs a couple of stitches but it's going to be okay. Stop crying." Misha told him, her eyes feeling heavy.

"You've the audacity to tell me this, Misha Jaiswal?" I snapped at her. "I could've lost you today, you idiot."

Misha's eyes were brimming in tears, "But you didn't. You're always saving me," she told him, before falling unconscious.