The early morning sun rays, penetrating the colourful window panes, paints her smooth legs with the glass colours; as she sits there lazily waking up from her restless sleep. She holds a diary close to herself. Flipping through the pages, sipping the vanilla coffee, she relives every inch of her favourite love story with the dried rose inside. The rough sketches of Him, the unclaimed wild poetry she penned, she turns blush.
That's how she imagined every thing. Hued in turquoise, pink was too cliche for them. Love is beyond the few words we utter, isn't it? It is not always, Joey's how you doing?, but somedays it's like Ross's hii. We cultivate love when we allow our most vulnerable and powerful selves to be deeply seen and known, and when we honor the spiritual connection that grows from that offering with trust, respect, kindness and affection. But no one says, what if it is not reciprocated? The feeling of betrayal creeps in. One tends to question her involvement in the relation. That is when it starts growing pale. Expectations are not always the materialistic desires, sometime it is just about that small cupcake he brings while your cramps. Too much of effort. Argh! . She rethinks all her expectations, unsaid and blames her own self for kept hoping everytime. The reality and her fairytale are miles apart. Is this the defamed, " Taken for granted? " Her decision of holding his hand, walking an extra mile, she knew things were different, she knew it will never be a classic desirable tale of love, she still fell in love. Where from these remonstrances coming from? She fights her thoughts relentlessly.
Love is not something we give or get; it is something that we nurture and grow, a connection that can only be cultivated between two people when it exists within each one of them – we can only love others as much as we love ourselves. She is so sure that it is still him she loves. The betrayal, the unfulfilled expectations, nothing could still change how she feels for him. She regrets each day for losing her involvement in his life, the phone calls on what groceries is he buying, that he tried on some new clothes, what fun did his hairy pawter do. She misses each one of these. She regrets for not being the girl, he fell in love with. She shuts her eyes in anguish. Not regretting for once her decision of being with him.
Shame, blame, disrespect, betrayal, and the withholding of affection damage the roots from which love grows. Love can only survive these injuries if they are acknowledged, healed and rare. .
The last sip of her coffee, walks her back to the present, where in her mismatched socks and wrapped in his sweatshirt, she connects the call and blushingly says, "Good morning, love."
Misunderstandings are beautiful. Mistakes are cherishable. Making things work through these is where effort lies, and it is ugly. But mostly rewarding.
It is truly an amazing experience, Love. But, unfortunately it comes with its thorn's too. It does not do well, to dwell in dreams and forget to live, and being in love is like standing on the very edge of both the worlds. It is a beautifully crafted piece.