It's time I told you a story. A story of innocence. Of quick glances, flushed faces (only hers), racing heartbeats (again, only hers). A story of hopes, expectations that soared, flew high in the jubilation of new love. Love? Only to come crashing, burning one lazy evening. A heart that capsized in one single moment. One solitary moment, one opening of a door. Two figures that weren't meant to be. Atleast not in her mind. Waves came crashing down and walls came up. Smiles and laughter protected the sinking ship. And lifeboats brought the ship to a shore. To catch her breath. Panting.
They say hope never dies. Like a cruel mockery it keeps you dancing. On your feet. But then there were cruel words. Insults. A show of indifference, apathy. Still there were stolen glances. A heart dancing at his sight - a sight she didn't see much. Like a rare gift. When he spoke, she treasured the sound. Still she claimed indifference. It didn't matter. They'd chosen different paths. Running on different tracks. Still, those stolen glances. That proximity which she yearned for. So unattainable. So impossible. Others took her hand, but with the other, hope held.
Years passed. Or was it only a few moments? Things changed. Glances weren't stolen. They were returned. And what more can I say? This was a story, after all. You know how it goes. This is a story. A story of beer. Of challenges. Of losing, of winning. Of new springs of hope. Of dancing hearts. Of smiles. Of warmth. Of hands shaking, spilling lemonade, when he's around. Of blushing when he looks. Of long walks at midnight. Of pitchers by candlelight. Of wine up above. Of getting caught in the rain. Of hopes, expectations. Of guilt. Of talks in the balcony. Of meeting at odd hours. Of learning how to box. Of cheese omelette. Of a conscience. Of blueberry cheesecake by candlelight. Of walks on the beach at twilight. Of sharing. Of sea shells. Of reaching out for his hand. Of sharing a secret. Of sand on his tshirt. Of acceptance. And realizations. And chocolates. And stars.
And cricket matches.
And drunken nights.
And a kiss.
And Bob. Who could forget Bob? No cleaver could end him. From the first beer to the birth of Bob. That is the length of this story.
The disclaimer? It's not a fairytale.