“What experiences do you have?”- you had asked. I had kept mum.
“What are your experiences, Sramaan? Which secrets are you hiding inside?”- you had pleaded again.
My mind had replayed videotapes of the anguished times when I had been caught by the police with stoned people drinking beer at midnight in the windy coast.
Times when I had forced myself to spend my nights with someone I despised. The fine morning when I met a raving lunatic in a wild countryside only to hear stories about infinity and beyond.
Cloudy evenings when I had gone to long walks with you and had liked it and was confused because I didn’t like you.
And when you were texting me without hoping for any replies, and I was weeping quietly into my pillow in a faraway land.
So I kept silent.
“How similar we are!”- you had said. I had voiced my dissent. You were hurt. I didn’t care. You kept loving. I kept looking for love. Such was our friendship.
Then all our friends went to the Rock Concert. None was around to discern your agonized groans.
And thus you bled and bled while I at the other end of the world locked my lips in lust and later wiped saliva with paper napkins. Because my story was not meant to be based on you.