I can't recall what you wore that day. A golden kurta atop a black pair of salwars? A golden kurta atop a golden pair of salwars? Perhaps the salwars were green. And inconsequential.

Right from the day your eyes planted those sustained glances at mine, and I feigned a blind eye at them before going home and dreaming, of those dark brown fetching eyes, through sleepless nights, I knew that some day you would definitely be mine. When you let yourself get closer to me, closer each day, I felt that some day you would definitely be mine. When people started taking note of us and when we started stealing our moments, minutes and hours away from them, away from the world, I realized you would definitely be mine. On the day I clutched your hand while crossing the road and you offered a non-chalant face and quivering eyes, I knew you were mine.

We had our moments. Timeless, shoreless, eternal love spanned across those five years of ours. Years that swept me with your smile, cuffed me with your glances, dazzled me with your touch and bound me by your mellow voice.

Then came that day. We were going through our bad patch. In a golden kurta and a black, golden or green pair of salwars you met me and we knew something was amiss. An eerie sense of realization crept in as the day progressed. When, after a few warm hours in a cool room, we locked our eyes and vowed to meet again, each of us knew how void that promise was.

Have I missed you? I have.

Have I longed for you? I have.

Did I feel like dying without your eyes on mine, without your hands in mine, without my head on your bossom? You bet.

Thanks to those bellicose emails and text messages that you later sent. They have helped a lot. To move ahead distended by your memories, to move on with your memories nibbling my resolute mind and, at last, to dump your memory somewhere on the road and perk up.