The ash from his cigarette hadn't died, when he flicked it off, it burnt a hole in my shawl. Of the exact girth of my index finger. And I kept fingering it for the length of the conversation.
There was a chill in the air, unusual for mid November. And a translucent fog hung from the trees. May be it was just us. Having missed the last few winters here, made everything look unusually new with a raw touch of nostalgia.
Like we were here sometime, when things were so different. And now, we are in the precise place, the very two same people, only older by a few years. And yet, the situation is the exact antithesis of what it was. The irony of life is never understated.
I had begun my writing here, there was something in the absolute quiet that had driven me to it. He had begun reading me here, admiring from a distance to begin with, then inched closer with well guarded steps. Our individual spaces remained, however, we almost fused into one being. He would reiterate, how he was reborn in his mind, during that phase. We thought in parallels. In the exact same lines, it was unnerving. In what I wrote, I felt his invisible hand behind my mind.
Do you realize the kind of sync. Too good to be real, ain't it.
But no infatuation is timeless. Everything wears off, if you give it a few days. This shrewdness of life can never be understated. Either.
Everything comes a circle. We did too. By going back to the place to break it up, where we first met, we did too.
A lot has been said, already. So this is the last of the Walks To Remember, to the best of my belief.