Emoji hugs somehow lack the magic. Do you feel the same way?
And to top it, that emoji smiles. What if I want to hug her to make her stop talking? What if I want to hug her to make her understand me without a word? Long distance relationship is a pain.
“Don’t use me as a resource” the text read. I wasn’t sure how I have to react. I knew she was typing something. She would have sent another ten messages. I was standing in the smoking area of my apartment. A cigarette loosely dangled from my lips. I hadn’t lit it yet. She had said she doesn’t like the smell of tobacco. That is how she was. She wouldn’t ask me to do something. She had accepted me as I was. With a bald head, lips akin to the coal of Dhanbad, dark circles resembling the hollow of my inner self. She was slowly filling it. She just said what she disliked. That one text a few days back didn’t let me light a cigarette. I wonder if that was some kind of spell. I still stood there because the reception was bad there. I had to gather myself before answering her text. I had just asked her movie recommendations that her friends suggested her to watch.
I put the cigarette back in the pack. Things weren’t going well that day. She had so much of work at the office. She didn’t get a seat in the train when she came back from work. There were one-word replies. In my desperation to talk to her, I had bombarded her with messages. I really didn’t want movie recommendations. I just wanted her to type something more than a word.
As expected as I reached the lift, there was a flurry of messages. “Why do you want to know?” “Do you have time to watch?” “Weren’t you the one who was working on weekends to compensate your leaves?” “Have I ever asked you anything other than us?”
Valid points. I had no answer.
“You won’t reply? You always run away when such things happen” the text messages won’t stop.
“Yes. I am sorry. This is a torture”
Poor choice of words. It should have been “Yes. I am torturing you.”
There was no reply. She was not online anymore. I waited for some more minutes and then got into the lift. I kept staring at the screen to see if she came online. It did, after a good five minutes.
“The let us put an end to this torture” the text read. She was offline again. Three weeks of bliss. Three weeks of joy. Three weeks of being alive. Deep in my heart I know she wouldn’t. She did more for the relationship than I did. She was a girl who came with zero expectation. Only I can mess up and go negative there.
But I couldn’t stop staring at the screen. I scrolled up. I had already taken back up of the chat. I read it every day. I knew it verbatim. I just started reading from the very first message. I mentally read her messages in her voice and mine in mine. Her tone and intonations. “Chamathu” that is how she calls me when she is happy. Whenever I came across the word, I couldn’t help wonder about the last message I received. As I scrolled down I noticed there wasn’t a single I in the messages. It never was “I want to go long walks at the beach”. It was always “We should do that beach walk sometime”. Even in her last message, it read “Let US put an end to this.”
How did I or why did I even get frustrated when she wasn’t messaging? I read the messages again and again and didn’t know when I fell asleep. It was just twenty minutes after I closed the eyes, a beep woke me up. “No Good morning today?” she asked.
“I didn’t sleep at night. I was reading our messages.”
“Why are you doing this to yourself? As if your dark circles are not enough.” There was concern.
“I am sorry,” I said.
“Don’t come to me with a lame ass sorry. You knew what you did.”
“I know. I am sorry for that.”
“I didn’t sleep too.” She messaged. I should have tried messaging her once, I thought.
“This night was longer than any night in my life,” I said.
“How is that?”
“The clock says we didn’t talk for five hours twenty-three minutes. It looked like many moons for me.” I replied.
“You know what, you are my quintessential Ross. You do things which are selfish, you want to have it your way. When you don’t get what you want, you always sulk rather than be angry and then you count the minutes we haven’t talked.” She said.
“Yes, I am Ross,” I said.
“Hmm” was the reply.
“And you are my lobster”