The Ninth of December, Two Thousand and Fifteen.
It is precisely a month from this day that we have had our 'break-up'. Gautam, it still fails to make sense. Couple party invitations are flying in full force and we were betted upon to be one of the best in at least three of such. Instead of crying myself over spilled rum, I would have gorged with my girlfriends on the many dresses that would make an attempt to make it into my wardrobe. I would have fought with you over colour co-ordination sometimes and not so at some other times. I would have.
What does this 'break-up' even bloody signify, Gautam? I am certain, you aren't quite used to it whatever else to try and suggest. At least, I am certain that that is the case with me. It feels as if someone punched a flautist bang in the pit of the stomach and left him with a flute. He does not know what to do with it.
I want to return home, drunk, held firm by you even as I struggle out of the car. I want to wake up to the whistle of the pressure-cooker which boils your nutritious vegetables for 'our' lunch. I want to defy people with a smile when they do not understand our living together. In fact, for everything else that I want, I also want to know what caused this slippage between us. I do not seem to remember a definite 'cause' triggering it. Why, even the January tickets to Kutch remain uncancelled. What do I do with them?
Gautam, please, I am not used to such suddenness. There are no pleasantries attached, nor can I see any possibility out. I just know that even when I am cursing under my breath while you wore those too colourful socks, I actually quite adore them, and yes, miss not having them peep at me from between your trouser end and the shoe top.
Well, the rum is taking over. And I do not want to give out to you that I am hating this separation from you. So, COME BACK.
Still loving you,
Rushati.
Where the flying fuck do I send this letter to, you bloody dead man? I hate you!
It is precisely a month from this day that we have had our 'break-up'. Gautam, it still fails to make sense. Couple party invitations are flying in full force and we were betted upon to be one of the best in at least three of such. Instead of crying myself over spilled rum, I would have gorged with my girlfriends on the many dresses that would make an attempt to make it into my wardrobe. I would have fought with you over colour co-ordination sometimes and not so at some other times. I would have.
What does this 'break-up' even bloody signify, Gautam? I am certain, you aren't quite used to it whatever else to try and suggest. At least, I am certain that that is the case with me. It feels as if someone punched a flautist bang in the pit of the stomach and left him with a flute. He does not know what to do with it.
I want to return home, drunk, held firm by you even as I struggle out of the car. I want to wake up to the whistle of the pressure-cooker which boils your nutritious vegetables for 'our' lunch. I want to defy people with a smile when they do not understand our living together. In fact, for everything else that I want, I also want to know what caused this slippage between us. I do not seem to remember a definite 'cause' triggering it. Why, even the January tickets to Kutch remain uncancelled. What do I do with them?
Gautam, please, I am not used to such suddenness. There are no pleasantries attached, nor can I see any possibility out. I just know that even when I am cursing under my breath while you wore those too colourful socks, I actually quite adore them, and yes, miss not having them peep at me from between your trouser end and the shoe top.
Well, the rum is taking over. And I do not want to give out to you that I am hating this separation from you. So, COME BACK.
Still loving you,
Rushati.
Where the flying fuck do I send this letter to, you bloody dead man? I hate you!
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