It was a cold November night, a little darker than the rest of them. The moon was struggling to be visible through the clouds. He collapsed on the sofa after a long day. He had this strange habit of sitting on the grey sofa-with turquoise cushions-in his room after he came back home from work, doing nothing, just staring into the void. As if he was trying to assure himself that he was at a safe place now, away from the hassle of the city, away from the chaos of life, the nuisance of responsibilities.
He looked around his dimly lit room. The bed, neatly made by his mother after he had left for work in the morning, the bookshelf in the corner, which was evidently running out of space to place his huge collection of books, the table beside his favorite sofa with a water bottle and some essentials, the rug, the windows, and the curtains. He absorbed all this and it started raining as if whatever already resided inside him had clashed with what he was trying to absorb recently. It really was too much for a 26 years old. The sky had to protest, it was bound to rain that night.
He had been deliberately avoiding to look at the painting at the wall behind his bed. How carefully he had made it, with so much love and affection.
He didn't want to leave. The city had given him so much. Beyond one's comprehension. He loved it. He could see his younger version playing with cars and toys in the same room, how the bed had been changed with he grew older and the bookshelf was made, how he had gradually filled it. He had memories in every corner of this room, every corner of this house, the city.
He didn't want to leave but he knew he wouldn't be able to live in this city anymore. He had tried. He had done his part. It was a small city and he had traces of her memories on almost every corner; the ice cream shop, the only library in the city, the pizza parlor, it was getting too painful. The mere act of driving to the office in the morning and coming back was killing him. He had to leave. He had to start somewhere new. For her sake, for his parents' sake. He owes this to her. This was the reason he had accepted the long-awaited transfer.
He finally decided to look at the painting. The blue sky of a January afternoon, the terrace, the oranges on the table, three vague figures, his parents, and her. He could still make out her smile from the blurry watercolors' painting. How many times he had cursed himself for making this painting? and for making it so detailed? Even after years, of all the things he couldn't let go; the painting was the most prominent one. This particular one.
It was still raining. The regular lonely catharsis session on the sofa was almost over. He decided to sleep early today. He had loads to do tomorrow.
:
pack his stuff
convince his parents
visit her...visit her at her final resting place.
He looked around his dimly lit room. The bed, neatly made by his mother after he had left for work in the morning, the bookshelf in the corner, which was evidently running out of space to place his huge collection of books, the table beside his favorite sofa with a water bottle and some essentials, the rug, the windows, and the curtains. He absorbed all this and it started raining as if whatever already resided inside him had clashed with what he was trying to absorb recently. It really was too much for a 26 years old. The sky had to protest, it was bound to rain that night.
He had been deliberately avoiding to look at the painting at the wall behind his bed. How carefully he had made it, with so much love and affection.
He didn't want to leave. The city had given him so much. Beyond one's comprehension. He loved it. He could see his younger version playing with cars and toys in the same room, how the bed had been changed with he grew older and the bookshelf was made, how he had gradually filled it. He had memories in every corner of this room, every corner of this house, the city.
He didn't want to leave but he knew he wouldn't be able to live in this city anymore. He had tried. He had done his part. It was a small city and he had traces of her memories on almost every corner; the ice cream shop, the only library in the city, the pizza parlor, it was getting too painful. The mere act of driving to the office in the morning and coming back was killing him. He had to leave. He had to start somewhere new. For her sake, for his parents' sake. He owes this to her. This was the reason he had accepted the long-awaited transfer.
He finally decided to look at the painting. The blue sky of a January afternoon, the terrace, the oranges on the table, three vague figures, his parents, and her. He could still make out her smile from the blurry watercolors' painting. How many times he had cursed himself for making this painting? and for making it so detailed? Even after years, of all the things he couldn't let go; the painting was the most prominent one. This particular one.
It was still raining. The regular lonely catharsis session on the sofa was almost over. He decided to sleep early today. He had loads to do tomorrow.
:
pack his stuff
convince his parents
visit her...visit her at her final resting place.
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