As her cell rang one evening, she had a goosebump to see his name on her mobile's screen.She felt a butterfly whirling and swirling ,some centripetal and centrifugal forces inside.she had left the expectations to listen to his voice ever again in her life.As she accepted the call and said Hi, she really could not know if the other end's heart was also thumping so same.
While a thought bemused her always "Will he be remembering me the same way,everyday,as I do ?", she didn't expect a better answer to it than the one she got.
He had told her once "To me, you mean love".And she slumped that day with the gravity of his statement and had extracted the truth of being his only love as one unambiguous meaning from those words, which she believed in, firmly, through the times of her longing for him.
She missed him for some heavenly moments spent together and wondered if he too remembers her from the same moments or has another lot of memories sprung up from other heavenly moments. This thought confused her that if he remembers her from moments different from hers, why does then she miss on them . And if he remembers her for the same moments what is that so peculiar about those which made them memorable for both. She then used to get into real dissection of old moments, balancing out her share of memory against his, eventually falling with him, together, into a sea of them.
His memories kept her occupied.And this call was shaking that pile of memories, which on their way of recalling, stumbled over each other, lied silent through the echoes of their breaths,moistening their eyes with love of their hearts.He avoided telephoning the girl for he knew he will be holding himself with his unrecognised strength to put it down.
As they tried calling each other's names, with rattling pulses, hesitatingly,in some faltering words, her phone rang up to the tone of Summer of 69'. She rubbed her eyes with his name wavering on her lips , picked it up, pressed a key to snooze her evening nap's alarm for a while, not realising that the question still remained.
While a thought bemused her always "Will he be remembering me the same way,everyday,as I do ?", she didn't expect a better answer to it than the one she got.
He had told her once "To me, you mean love".And she slumped that day with the gravity of his statement and had extracted the truth of being his only love as one unambiguous meaning from those words, which she believed in, firmly, through the times of her longing for him.
She missed him for some heavenly moments spent together and wondered if he too remembers her from the same moments or has another lot of memories sprung up from other heavenly moments. This thought confused her that if he remembers her from moments different from hers, why does then she miss on them . And if he remembers her for the same moments what is that so peculiar about those which made them memorable for both. She then used to get into real dissection of old moments, balancing out her share of memory against his, eventually falling with him, together, into a sea of them.
His memories kept her occupied.And this call was shaking that pile of memories, which on their way of recalling, stumbled over each other, lied silent through the echoes of their breaths,moistening their eyes with love of their hearts.He avoided telephoning the girl for he knew he will be holding himself with his unrecognised strength to put it down.
As they tried calling each other's names, with rattling pulses, hesitatingly,in some faltering words, her phone rang up to the tone of Summer of 69'. She rubbed her eyes with his name wavering on her lips , picked it up, pressed a key to snooze her evening nap's alarm for a while, not realising that the question still remained.
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