The thought that haunts me the most is that may be, one day you will be the story that I will be telling my daughter. When she would be on her bed, without food and sleep for days because of her bleeding heart, when she would be looking for ways to kill herself, I will just walk up to her; I would just walk up to her and I fear I would have to tell her about you. I will probably tell her how you met someone when you were fourteen, how you both sat together in class and in no time fell in love. I will tell her how you both dreamt of a future together, how you were a boon to him, yet he left you unfixable. I will tell her how hurt you were and how the pain almost killed you. How you started spending hours in shower and began taking more pills than food. I will tell her how you remained closed in that one room for days.

And I will stroll my arms over her forehead and tell her how it all got over, how it all stopped hurting you eventually. How you began going to school again and listening to happy music. I will tell her how you healed up and became happy again.

But when she asks me who did that to you, I fear I would have nothing to say. I won't tell her how much self hatred her father holds within himself.. I won't tell her that there are parts of me which curse me for pushing away the biggest boon of my life. Parts, which wish I could give you back the love you deserved.

I won't tell her about the nights when I get glimpses of your face every time I close my eyes. I won't tell her why I don't go to those old streets anymore, why I skip that one song every time and why I have this ink on my body. I won't tell her that I one used to be the monster that I warn her about. I won't tell her why I drink myself to sleep, or why I have those bruises on my arm. I won't tell her why I write.

But what I would keep telling her is how strong you were. I will tell her that moving on from the wrong person is always the right thing to do.


© Sagnik