March 29, 2005

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--another short story by me--

She looked like an angel in the white dress she wore. Her face was glowing pale in the candlelight, which made her look even more beautiful; unbelievably beautiful. She whispered the softest, beautiful words that I yearned to hear. She told me how much she loved me, she spoke her heart out.

She took my hands, held them firmly, and looked into my eyes. I glanced up into her eyes and saw a sea of love for me in her sparkling emerald-like eyes that were now flooding with tears. She knew how difficult it would be for us to be together. I held her hands; more firmly; reassuring our never ending love and care for each other.

No words were spoken; our eyes did all the conversation. No words were meant to be spoken; silence spoke it all. It was a hapless love between two people who were not meant to be together.

I caressed her hand. Blushing, she looked down; tears now flowing down her cheeks. Colors came and dissolved in her face. I couldn’t see those tears; I brushed the tears off her face. She looked at me, gave me a sweet yet fragile smile. She giggled, softly, impulsively, as if laughing at her fate.

I didn’t know what to say; maybe I was dumb. I didn’t know how to make her happy. I so much wanted to give her all the happiness, but she was bound by her own self; her own believes. She was crumbling inside. Her soul was dying; yet I couldn’t do anything to comfort her.

The space between us was shrinking. Somehow the darkness kept on creeping; surrounding us totally. It seemed as if we were the only two souls alive around. The music had all of sudden stopped. All I could hear was her heart beats. I reached up and stroked her silk-brown hair. She took my hand in hers, affectionately, and closed her eyes feeling my hand as if trying to capture the whole moment in her mind; bringing back the memories of the past. The candle kept on burning, hours passed by in seconds; she kissed my hand before finally letting it go.

She swept her tears again, suddenly standing up; realizing she had to go back home to her husband and child; her boring life awaited her. She left and I stood up with weak, shaky legs; took a deep sigh, and headed back home to my wife who was probably knitting a sweater for our unborn child.

We left, without saying a good-bye; we both knew this wasn’t our last meeting.

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