Now that I’ve been through so much it is hard to believe. Anything and everything. He was very brave. It takes courage to write lies. Anyone can speak lies but writing them and giving it to someone knowing that they love you from the bottom of their heart and they're gonna breath through that letter is cruel. I don’t like to talk about him, every time I start talking with a hope to atleast once say out loud that he wasn’t worth it, I end up defending him. You see? How evil he is. Engaging evil. It isn’t that I didn’t see it coming. I obviously did. Either he was too dumb to show signs of losing interest or maybe he really wanted to go.
Later is more obvious, but I feel he wanted to hide that he isn’t interested anymore. Because he wanted more from me. He wanted to wear this stupid mask of affection. He wanted to summon me. And he did.
"I am soooooo excited to meet you."
"I don’t know what’s next.."
Again. A lie. He did know. He did know what’s coming. He did know he wanted to go away. He just lied. He was a writer. Not everything he wrote was true. Some was exaggeration. Some was mere figurative language.
"You are my sunshine."
There you go, another one.
It was just a metaphor, damn it! It wasn’t about me, wasn’t meant to make me happy. It was about him, so that he’s satisfied with his piece. For him, I know, it was nothing more than any other of his writings. For me? I am reading it right now.
By the way, this specific piece of him is a bit special. This is where he lied the most.
I know. I just know now.
"I will always love you."
"I will lie to you for the rest of my life!" can be the only truth he could have ever said to me. He wanted me to live in the fantasy world which he built for me while he messes up my actual world. It is so funny, he has always won.
As I am reading this letter and wetting my cheeks, I am stopping for a while. Keeping the letter away (so that my salty-wet hands don’t touch it. I wanna preserve it) and I pick my diary and continue writing this piece. It’s again funny that I don’t care if my diary, where I am writing this potential masterpiece (masterpiece because, emotions are real, lol) gets wet.
I don’t care if my ink spreads. But I care more about that letter he wrote 21 months ago.
You know what, something is good about this (my) piece too. This is not just a memoir but also the most truthful piece anybody would have ever written. I am just pouring out my heart. Untamed feelings.
“Agar karta hai mohabbat, toh dikhta kyu nahi?
Agar hai mohabbat ka shayar, toh tere liye likhta kyu nahi?”
Isn’t it beautiful?
But now I know he used certain words only to rhyme. He and I never rhymed.
We were that unrhymed couplet (a b). There are poetries which do not rhyme. But later, I read the next two lines from which one rhymed to him (a b c b). And then we both never even tried to look good together. He rhymed with someone else.
I still live, because I believe there’s gonna be at least one word in this poetry or some other poetry which will rhyme to me. Or at least we can alliterate. Yeah?
His sign at the end.
Oh this was real. One and only thing I found real in this letter.
You know why people sign? To authenticate something. He has signed this one. Maybe this was not entirely false? Maybe he loved me? Maybe he still does? Maybe he reads my letters too? Phewww, Let me just end by what I began. It’s too much nostalgia.
“I don’t like to talk about him. every time I start talking with a hope to at least once say out loud that he wasn’t worth it, I end up defending him.”