The grey tiles below my feet matched the state of my heart. The distant voices of announcements, trains' arrivals, departures, sweeping, dragging, counting, crying, shouting made exactly no difference to the even louder voices in my head.

In one minute twenty three seconds, he would leave, sitting near the window seat, indifferent to my being, a thousand kilometers in the opposite direction of the east. I tap my foot. I don't particularly enjoy seeing off people, nor do I enjoy being see off-ed. I think I will never know what to do in that 1 minute and the seconds passing by. Do you smile, do you cry, do you just be, or you start walking away, before the other one does anyhow. I….decided to look. For I knew it would be the last time I see him as him.

In the coming time, he would be different, I would be different, and us would be a past.

A beautiful one.

slipped

You can't pinpoint the moment you fell for someone. You can never know when, how, where or 'why' it started in the first place. You can't control it, with buttons and triggers. Neither can you hide it in the safest corner of your indecently beating heart. Deny it as much as you want, it's not in your hands.

The beautiful thing took place. The beautiful thing was cherished. It was ornamented with tiptoed walks, hushed voices, stolen glances. The dark was embraced, while two hearts confessed. The time was challenged to slow down, with dragged attempts of slow walking. The beautiful thing, apart from being beautiful was alarmingly comfortable, graciously heartwarming and shockingly inevitable.

Like an intricate painting, it had layers. The ones you can't really see but exists. The ones you can't really figure out but feel. The ones which makes the painting stand out. There were cracks, through which darkness seeped in, but light found no way. There were shadows which haunted you at times. Though there were blots of oranges, like laughs. Rhythm which flows, like words. Above all it was the same painting but with different narratives for all. The ones which makes the painting painting and humans human afterall.

Subjective.

Just like the ink which fades with time, the excitement blured. Just like the colours which chip off of the canvas, the big questions lay in the front. All broken, in various shades, all parts of the beautiful painting.

Though you doubt if it still is the same beautiful thing.

fear

I see it in the eyes, the end nearby. We both know we are incapable of not ruining what becomes ours. The curse that we got upon ourselves, the curse we cultivated. The curse we fed. The fight with fear which fear always wins.

The glassy eyes knew it all along, the fatal attempts of engraving moments on the hearts said it all. The stone cold eyes laid behind. The careless eyes were always stalling beside.

The end was greeted with smiles.

The loving eyes saw the last time through the blue windows of passing time. On the grey tiles coldness creeped into the heart which once beat incessantly. The minutes ran out, the seconds flew by. The confused eyes stared at everything but nowhere near I stand. The questions still lay where they were and we were out of time.

The horn honked.

The flag waved.

The train slowly took away…my beautiful thing.