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I thought I won’t  reply. I will  sit  quietly and make  you  feel  that  I am dead (as if  you care)  but,  then I don’t  like  these unanswered questions, unfinished conversations,   un-replied  mails,  messages… I thought  I will  mail  you  back but  then I didn’t  have  the  courage… I don’t  know  why… May be your mail  carried proof of  your  existence combined with  your smell.  And now it’s not easy to  go  back  to  that  space and write to  you. Its not  easy  to  forget darling that you  have  seen mad  days  of  my  life (you still see) , peaks of my  weakness,  insanity of  my passions. Coming  out sometimes in  the  form  of  mails while other times in mad pieces of  literature. Should  I also confess,  no  one has seen this part of  me.

I agree to  whatever you  have  said  about  me except one thing.  I never expected  a reply  from  you.  Infact I was  surprised /shocked when you  replied. My  first  mail  to you  was  eight  months  back,  now  when you are  mailing me  and  saying “not  to  expect a reply any time soon”  I am really  wondering  about this  linearity and  relativity of  time.  Were these  seven months,  more than  210 days  only  for  me ?  Were these like  seconds or  minutes for  you? Your last  message  was  in  August.  From  August to  June,  it comes  out  to  be  more  than  270 days.  I won’t deny,  I did  expect atleast one  reply,  in  the  early months but  then I compromised and  said  to  myself,  may  be  this  is  how  you  like,  not  to  be  associated with  me in  any  form. I don’t  know  the  number  of  mails  I have  sent  to  you,  they  all  came  from  the  mind and  heart  which  never expected  any  reply. 

I agree that  I am “super dramatic”  as  you  have  called  me but  then  this  side  of  me  only  comes  out in  front  of  people  whom  I really  love. And I hope,  I need  not  prove my love to you.  You know  this  already.  However,  this  love  is  without  any  expectations.  I love you  because I want  to love you.  This does  not mean I want you to reciprocate.  And sweetie, the kind  of mad, passionate person, I am,  I don’t think you would  be  able  to  do  anything  about  it.  Neither you or anyone else has the ability to  reciprocate that.

The  feelings I have for you cannot  be  shared.  Only you and me are witnesses of  the conversations which took place between us or of the one side monologues which  I have been raining on you for  months. You won’t  believe but I have  tried to concentrate my literary skills on  someone  else.  Even  a poem came  out just  to  document  my day-long fascination.  But,  then as always I got  bored.  After  two  days not he but  it’s  you  whom I see in  that  poem.  I cannot just  cannot  write for  anyone  else except you.

I know  you  will  read  this… One  day  you  will  definitely  read  this but  don’t  worry I am not expecting a reply.  Atleast not  “anytime soon”…

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