She had this way of living in the past, that's what he always said, didn't he? "Why are you living in the past? It's like you are obsessed with everything you had but lost." She couldn't disagree, the polaroid camera in her hands was proof enough. She trudged on, looking for things that caught her attention - a tiny squirrel, a disoriented puppy, clouds that made the day feel gloomy. She had become so attached to the pictures she had taken over the years, her room showed more pictures than walls. It was like she didn't want any moment to run away, like catching butterflies.
She felt the inside pocket of her jeans, still there, tattered from the multiple failed attempts of tearing it apart. The first polaroid. It was the only picture she had with him. Of him. He gave her photography, an eye for details, an obsession with moments. He had lost someone. Someone he could never get over. He made up for it by trying to capture everything that touched him. He passed it on to her. She was doing great before she met him, until she met him. She still was, doing great. But he had been like a strong tremor that shook her world and changed a part of her. And then he left. It was so fast she felt she didn't even get to catch her breath.
It had all started with that hoodie. That damned hoodie. The first time she saw his picture, it was just the hoodie that had caught her attention, she couldn't stop herself from commenting on the picture. It was probably just a Cumberbatch phase she was going through, maybe it was more. She believed in those things - destiny and serendipity and what not. Come to think of it, her all time favourite movie? Serendipity. And he had introduced her to it. One thing led to another, they became friends. Pen friends. It was like an array of items on her bucket list being checked off. Become pen friends with someone. Check. Find someone who is crazier than you. Check. Kiss someone who has the cutest dimples on the planet. Check. She called them craters, and for all she knew, he adored her for it.
She pulled out the picture, took a long, hard look at it, tried to tear it up again. The creases on the photograph in a way were proof that he was never hers. Nobody understood why she got so attached to him. Nobody questioned him why she was the only person he talked to. He held it against her, when she said she couldn't see him do it. Keep torturing himself. She was supposed to be his safety valve. She was supposed to save him from drowning. She failed. And then he found her again. She knew he was never hers to begin with. But she couldn't get the image of - blue coloured tongues after a blue lagoon, the long drives across her favourite city, him cheating like an excited kid at the arena - couldn't get any of them out of her head.
What was that saying? If you can't get someone off of your mind, maybe they are supposed to be there.
Hmm. Maybe they are.
She felt the inside pocket of her jeans, still there, tattered from the multiple failed attempts of tearing it apart. The first polaroid. It was the only picture she had with him. Of him. He gave her photography, an eye for details, an obsession with moments. He had lost someone. Someone he could never get over. He made up for it by trying to capture everything that touched him. He passed it on to her. She was doing great before she met him, until she met him. She still was, doing great. But he had been like a strong tremor that shook her world and changed a part of her. And then he left. It was so fast she felt she didn't even get to catch her breath.
It had all started with that hoodie. That damned hoodie. The first time she saw his picture, it was just the hoodie that had caught her attention, she couldn't stop herself from commenting on the picture. It was probably just a Cumberbatch phase she was going through, maybe it was more. She believed in those things - destiny and serendipity and what not. Come to think of it, her all time favourite movie? Serendipity. And he had introduced her to it. One thing led to another, they became friends. Pen friends. It was like an array of items on her bucket list being checked off. Become pen friends with someone. Check. Find someone who is crazier than you. Check. Kiss someone who has the cutest dimples on the planet. Check. She called them craters, and for all she knew, he adored her for it.
She pulled out the picture, took a long, hard look at it, tried to tear it up again. The creases on the photograph in a way were proof that he was never hers. Nobody understood why she got so attached to him. Nobody questioned him why she was the only person he talked to. He held it against her, when she said she couldn't see him do it. Keep torturing himself. She was supposed to be his safety valve. She was supposed to save him from drowning. She failed. And then he found her again. She knew he was never hers to begin with. But she couldn't get the image of - blue coloured tongues after a blue lagoon, the long drives across her favourite city, him cheating like an excited kid at the arena - couldn't get any of them out of her head.
What was that saying? If you can't get someone off of your mind, maybe they are supposed to be there.
Hmm. Maybe they are.
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