The unfortunate truth is that she doesn’t care. Which is to say if at any instant the earth blew up, the second between me registering the bang and colliding on a boulder, I’d be thinking of her. But she wouldn’t.
Which is to say that I have kept her in that part of my heart where flowers bloom and butterflies flutter all colorful and cheery. But she has kept me in that forgotten corner where she keeps her small pencils and rusty sharpeners, inside a neglected pencil cup.
I keep thinking of things like this, and stare at nothing. I am in the classroom where a teacher is animatedly explaining vector calculus. For some reason, my soul is blue today. A dream is playing in my head with visions of that asphalt road, that slightly uphill street on my way to college. It is midday. Against the backdrop of the blue sky, cloudless and infinite, a phantasmal Hetauda is arranged to look like the real place. It is summer and the world is asleep in a thin and sticky siesta. So the road is deserted. It’s a ghost town. In my mind, I walk under under that placid sky under an umbrella. I am either very happy or at least not sad but it’s hard to tell in the heat.
The teacher’s voice fades out and ‘Video Games’ starts playing. The hallucination goes on, but I keep on walking that same asphalt street again and again. Like a video on loop, I pass by the same scenery every minute. Lana sings, ‘it’s you its you it’s all for you everything I do’
I put one foot in front of the other, then I put the next foot ahead of that then the first foot again and on and on. And I keep passing her home. I pass her home. Then I pass her home again. Then I pass her home again. Then I … ‘tell you all the time heaven is a place on earth with you’ … pass her home again. Then I pass her home again. Then I pass her home again. And again, and again. ‘they say that the world was build for two’ … This is all I do.
She had once asked me, “Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?” and I had said, “Of course not.”
I keep on passing her home as it begins to rain and the world is melancholy gray. I keep on passing her home as I’m somehow without the umbrella and drenched and shivering. I keep on passing her home as I grow as lonely as the asphalt road and the deserted houses. I keep on passing her home all alone and forever. Every time I pass her home, my eyes instinctively glance towards the balcony of her room. Maybe she is there, I think. But she isn’t. Even she has abandoned this ghost town long ago to purse a colorful reality.