Not everything I fancy can be penned exactly. Not every day, I might even have the mood to pen everything that whacks my head. Not every day, a gentle breeze carrying drizzles can vitalize my poetic skills. Not every day what I write will make people grin from ear to ear. But still, I choose to write every single time.

I write with the blind hope that at least a few drops of rain might clear my chaotic head, provoke my serotonin, and help me pen my thoughts scrupulously. But, my crap, it doesn't rain the whole year to make me a good writer. Rather, it's sunny and the temperature is eventually rising, and I should be dumb as a doornail to even think about rain in this very month.

Oh September! Bring some wonders to reduce my temper...

I carefully carved those three dots into the page, hoping that September would be as sweet as honey. I closed my diary after scribbling all my puerile thoughts. It gives me immense contentment to write things that pour out when I'm alone. Missing that feeling would be considered an irrevocable sin in my court of subconsciousness.

I carefully placed my diary in my closet and tied my hair into a ponytail with a purple band, which suited my purple-shaded frock with a slight difference. I gazed at myself in the mirror and idolized my bare beauty.

"You're a natural beauty, Ms. Elena Davis." I gave a flying kiss to my other self, who was staring at me from the opposite end of the mirror.

"It's going to be a long day." I sighed.

But it's time to hunt for 'The fault in our stars'.

••••••

I rushed to the library once my classes were over.

After a prolonged search for almost half an hour, I found it. I found the masterpiece of John Green. I've already watched the movie but haven't yet had a chance to read the book. I thought it might be time to indulge in Hazel and Augustus' lives wrapped in these papers.

And I should be staggered if there wasn't any letter within this book. Yes, there was one. By seeing the length of the letter, my head started spinning like nothing less than a spinning top would. It was longer than the combined length of all the pages of my answer sheet. Presuming the time it might take to read this, I comforted myself on a couch nearby.

"It's going to be another usual letter!" Bearing a sullen face, I opened it with less curiosity.

You know what love is?

Love is when a simple imagination about that person would put a huge blush in your face, and you'd start smiling every now and then for no reason.

Love is when you would do anything to see that person's face, even after a happier day.

Love is when you want that person to be happy, even at the cost of letting down all your ego.

Love is when you start doing things that someone else loves, though you used to hate them utterly.

Love is when you leave everything aside and sit at a writing table, squeezing your pea-sized brain to spit out a romantic poem even after scoring a whole zero in poetics.

Love is when you begin relating every song and movie you watch to that person.

Love is when you hopelessly sit in a corner with hands holding your drooping face, waiting for a single reply from that beloved person.

Love is when you start talking to the moon and stars every time you miss that person.

Love is when you're more excited about that person's birthday than yours.

Love is when it's 1:00 a.m. in the morning and you're still as brisk as a scary owl searching for anything on Amazon that even Amazon doesn't know exists within its realm, just to see a smile on that person's lips when you gift it over.

Love is when you save every single post you see on Instagram just to send it to that person later who doesn't even have an account on it.

Love is whenever you buy a new pen and you unknowingly write that person's name first instead of yours. It is in these silly little things that love makes you feel content.

Love is mad when you start believing that every road in this world is to be explored with that person, every flower that blooms is to be bestowed on that person, and every star in the sky is to be counted with that person.

Love is when you pile up everything that happened in the fullness of time and encode it into a single message that's to be sent to that person at the end of the day.

Love is when you serve that person extra food, even after a melodramatic fight.

Love is when you cry under a blanket for a whole night after a fight and smile the next morning as if it had never happened.

Love is when each and every night brings a dream about that person, and though you touch them in a dream, you'll feel them in real life.

Love is when you start searching for that person in everyone you meet after a breakup and later realizing that no one can actually fill the void they left.

Love is when you have the courage to wait your whole life until that person accepts you.

Love is when you'll be ready to leave that person if that's what gives them happiness.

Love is when you'll live a life waiting for that person even after knowing that you can't have them in real life.

Love is when you begin imagining yourself older with white hair and wrinkled skin holding that person's hand while crossing a road.

Love is pure when you're visiting that person's graveyard each year with a bouquet of flowers, feeling their presence in the air around you, and assuring them that we'll have a beautiful life later there in heaven, at least.

Love is even when you follow a stranger's words and search for a book in a library, even after pretending not to care.

Love is when you read this whole letter and unknowingly relate each and every line in it to a person's name.

And for me, that name is yours!

With love,
R.

"My jeez! What a letter!" I wondered whether someone could portray what love is better than him.

I have always wanted to witness a kind of love story that gives goosebumps to anyone who hears it—a love story that any author would get exhilarated to pen—a love story that is a key to eternity. That kind of love lives even beyond us. It lives within the sand of the beaches we have walked together on in the evenings; it lives within the dried leaves of the trees on which we engraved our names; it lives within the air, which bears all our whispered secrets; it lives within the gossips of Mr. Moon and Mrs. Venus, who would get covetous of our love; and it lives forever within the kinetic dark clouds replenished with water droplets.

When it's love, it's just all about love. Nothing more, nothing less. It's like trying to hold water with our bare hands. The more we try to latch it within our palms, the more it tries to slip away from us. All we could do was just enjoy the glimpse of our hands dwelling in it. The right person gets hold of it underneath at the very right time, and when that person doesn't get hold of us, all we can do is just wait with a blindfold over our eyes. One day, it'll turn out to be our side, and we'll be the happiest people in the world at that moment. To be loved is bliss, but to love with the whole of our heart without expecting it back is nevertheless less than godliness. That's all that matters in the very end!

With so many of these mixed thoughts hurtling through my mind, I stood still at the cost of time.

•~•~•~•~•

Hey folks!

I know it's been so long, I mean so long since the update of last chapter.

This story literally started screaming at me and I no longer can resist myself from writing.

Thank you if you're this far reading our story!

More chapters to come!

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