4 AM

I looked at the melancholic moon, pinned across the starry sky. Moon. The lone wolf. Always alone, yet beautiful. Flawed, but loved. It has a charm that makes you need it. And then there are stars, always full of themselves. Distanced, twinkling, and showing off. 

But the sadness... it is no stranger to me. And it is no stranger to you either. And this is what connects us, you and me. The sight is sore, and truths are ugly. The whispers are not true; they are a distant echo. And as the moon bids goodbye, I hold it back, after all, I have something to share —

“Did you know sunrise only looks beautiful when you see it once a week? Look at it every day and it becomes 4 AM,” she tells me.

I remember Phil Kay saying something similar once, and I had thought much about it. He was quite there with his words, but I disagree with him. “I think it’s correct, but if you see it differently, it won’t be 4 AM,” I reply sincerely.

“What do you mean?”

“Like on Monday, you can look at the sunrise from your balcony. On Tuesday, if you sit down with a cup of coffee, it'll be different. Wednesday, you can read articles. Thursday, you can visit the beach. On Friday, you can share the sunrise with someone. For Saturday, I think you can read a book as the sun rises. And for Sunday, I think you should just sleep late.” I giggle. She joins me in my giggle.

“So you change ways to see things.”

“No, you enjoy the sunrise with other things that you love to do.”

“This goes for people, too,” she says. “To keep each other happy, we add the things we love.”

“Yes, and that’s why I keep trying new things with you. That’s how a love grows. A love that has no new experiences is a love turning sour.” Her eyes spark with diversion. “And we use roses as metaphors to express our love for each other.”

“It is a cruel, lovely thing to say?” I say, plucking a rose petal which had turned brown from the rose I am holding.

“You are cruel,” she corrects me, trying not to meet my eyes.

I sit there, dressed in red, playing and curling the loose strand around my finger. “Am I?” I put the rose back into the vase.

“Just one minute,” she whispers and closes her eyes.

I shut my eyes, too, and counts to sixty. Let the moment pass. Let it escape Time. Another moment… let it cross time. Answers are seldom found in Time, anyway.

I open my eyes and find her face next to me, her eyes meeting mine, searching for the scent of happiness. My heart begins to throb with anger and vulnerability. she cannot.

she straightens up, her eyes glowing with answers. “You are a rose that has bloomed. And like every lovely rose, you are covered with thorns.”

I stay quiet.

“Petals of rose often turn brown and suffering is much like holding a rose—thorns will hurt you if you are not careful. If you can pluck a brown petal to appease the rose’s beauty. Pretty much, you can do the same with your life by plucking suffering and keeping its beauty unscathed.” I smile at her, ever so gently.

she picks the rose from the vase and offers it to me.

“To a new beginning.”

This one time, I don’t mind the thorns hurting me.

“I’m taking care of myself.” Taking a deep breath, she begins. “I like to play safe. Especially, when it comes to love.”

I look at her sadly, collecting my thoughts. “I know you do,” I whisper. “And I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

“I am. I’m sorry for not being able to take care of you. There is a thin difference between understanding love and experiencing it. Like you, I was a quiet person, too, confined my real identity behind humour and stories so that nobody could get through me. Some of us just spend a lot of time running away, you know? We are good at walking away… it’s easier to run inside our heads because our legs don’t give up. But here is the ugly truth — it doesn’t disappear. Mentally, we’re exhausted, but somehow, the brain continues to function even when it’s at the edge.”

“I don’t need experiences. I feel good.”

“If I asked you to tell me about your first kiss, you can go on to describing the boy and if he was a good kisser or not. But if I asked you — how did your last kiss make you feel? — the closest description you’ll come to is quoting the end scene of Romeo and Juliet simply because you haven’t kissed anyone in a really long time. If I asked you to tell me about your favourite songs, you’ll share your playlist, but can you tell me if you think of anyone when you listen to them? No, you cannot.”

She looks at me, blankly.

“If I asked you to write a poem for the boy you’re crushing on, you’d use some fancy words like “his sparkling eyes” and “my heartbeat found its home”, but you’re not truly in love with him until your words fail to describe accurately what you’re feeling. If fancy words were enough to describe love, most of the writers wouldn’t have been heartbroken and turned into writers.”

“I’m scared of feeling vulnerable again.”

“So am I. If we were just a program, we would be stuck in a loop, but fortunately, we’re not, and so the possibilities of our ending are different with every new person. At some point, you may find what you’ve been looking for. I’m not asking you to find perfect because there won’t be one. I’m requesting you to at least look out for some chances.”

“I’m intrigued by the idea of death.” This was my fifth point. She had asked me to tell her five things about me.

“Okay… are you not going to add more details to this one?” she says, sipping her coffee.

I look at her. Big, beautiful eyes behind the round glasses look back at me, and for a moment I disappear. Her hair is not too long, and her earrings dangle. In her red kurti, she waits.

“Oh yes, but first tell me, what’s your idea of death?” I begin to speak, snapping out of the mesmerisation.

“I think it’s the end of all miseries and suffering.”

“Is it? I don’t think so.”

“So, you believe in after-life or something?”

“No. I think death is the oblivion, and your miseries never end.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Let me put it this way: you’re suffering, right?”

“Yes, okay?”

“But it’s not your body that feels anything. It’s your soul, your body is just a cover, a mask that has the soul trapped.”

“Yes.” I have her attention now.

“Now, as we all know, a soul cannot be destroyed, because it’s an energy. It can only be transformed. We never really die. Our bodies decay and disappear, but the soul is still out there.”

“I think so, yeah.”

“So, what if, all the souls go into oblivion after we die? That way, your suffering never ends. It just lives on.”

“The suffering ends here,” she replies. “In this world, it ends.”

“Yes, here in the world, you feel both happiness and sadness, that’s what you’re saying.”

“Exactly, we live and then we die, and move on.”

“Exactly. After dying, it’s just the soul and if it’s in oblivion, it’ll only take what it had here in this world. And if it’s suffering, you will suffer even after death, forever.”

“That’s kind of suffering. Here I’m contemplating suicide to end my miseries and you’re telling me it’ll continue to live even after death.”

“In a way, I’m advising you to not die just yet.”