The way she smiles, with dimples on her cheeks, I love it.
The way she frowns when she is thinking, I love it.
The way she runs her fingers through her hair, I love it.
The way she holds a pen between her lips, I love it.
I love her.

He wrote on a piece of torn paper and kept it inside his pocket. He wanted to tell her, maybe just talk to her, but confidence betrayed him, over and over.

She was president of the drama club, member of the school choir and co-founder of an NGO. She was beautiful, intelligent and knew three languages.

He was a nobody. He came to class, sat in a corner, took down notes and left.

She loved the spotlight, he embraced the shadows.


Then one fine day, he stepped out of the shadows and walked into the spotlight, telling her how he felt. The only things we regret are the things we didn't do, he had read somewhere earlier today.

He felt proud, realizing that the regret of not expressing would be far far greater than the remorse of rejection.
But as life would have it, the pride was smoke and all that was left was ashes of regret.

She was despised by his boldness. After all, how could she allow the shadows to steal her spotlight.
What do you think of yourself? Who are you anyway? What made you think that you could talk to me, or rather stand beside me? Go away. Go and die.

And so he went back, back to his shadows. The shadow sometimes is a dark place, dark enough to push someone over the edge.

If living wasn't enough to win her over, I will even try death.

He wrote on the backside of that torn piece of paper and kept it inside his pocket.
And then reached for the knife and before the final act, took out that torn paper and added
Not mine. But hers.

|| Ankit Bansal ||