So here’s another story of he and she.

Half world was imaginary.

She lived in stories and tales,

Sung with characters, held their hands and laughed with them.
She’d sit in the garden uphill and read and smile and cry.

Until one day he passed by and their eyes smiled.
The stupid Cupid moved his wand, shot the arrow and went away looking for his next prey.

Now they would read together under the tree in the same garden.
He was a mystery who never spoke his mind
But fell in love with her little chaos inside.
“Let’s be fictional,” she said.
His eyes said yes.
Eyes could talk, who knew until now?


On page ten, they fell in love, irrevocably this time.
Page forty-one, they kissed.
Page eighty-seven, they danced in rain.
Page one-hundred and fifty, they shared the warmth on a winter night.
Page two-hundred and twelve, it became madness.

Who wanted this book to end?
But all books do end.
Every book has a last page, last sentence, last word, last letter.

And so came page three-hundred and fifteen

He had to go now.
Where?
We don’t know.
Why?
Nobody would ask.
For how long?
Forever, perhaps.

It was madness again.
A sickening melancholy madness.
She’d still sit there under the tree uphill,
Knowing he’d never come but still waiting for him to pass by.

She’d pick up her pen and write everyday; scribble anything.
The blue ink and the white sheets heard it all and she’d tell them everyday,
“It takes madness to fall in love and it takes madness to fall out of it.”