Solitude

He wasn’t there but still he was a part of her. She had stopped talking about him but still she thought about him. Everyone else thought that she was recovering…..moving on as they say but she knew that her scars were still bleeding, the only difference was now she had hidden it with a black cloth of lie. They saw that white mask in her face that always pretended to smile and be normal but her original face was still manufacturing black, acidic tears. She  wasn’t doing all of this because everyone else asked her to but she was doing this because she didn’t want to look helpless. She wasn’t afraid of being lonely, she was afraid of other people seeing her lonely. Solitude was something she had savoured. She liked having a conversation with herself now and then but she didn’t like other people knowing her solitude. So she went to those boring parties where the music was always loud and everyone was screaming and shouting and she pretended to have a good time whereas honestly, she just wanted to go home and complete that book of Stephen Hawking. She wasn’t afraid to be depressed but she was afraid of other people looking at her in that way. She dreaded sympathy and pity. All she wanted was a tight hug of a true friend and a deep conversation about anything other than her dead husband for whom she still made tea for, hoping that he’d just open the door and walk in with that big smile like nothing had happened. She had a hole in her heart and she had accepted it but it was the irritating people who were constantly trying to fill it up. Her heart was deeply scarred but it can’t be fixed. She can’t move on not because she wasn’t ready……because she didn’t want to nor she ever will. She was happy in her little black hole of sadness where she kept all his memories and visited every other minute. It was her home these days and she enjoyed being their.

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