It is very hard for me to explain that dark period of my life. After I came out of the party, I ran. I ran a lot; I don’t know how many kilometers I had covered, or who was crying, me or my heart. Then I found myself on a bridge on that terrible night, and as I looked around, it was dark, calm, and silent. Hence I started crying again. I couldn’t control the tears which were rolling down my cheeks. Even my heart was drenched in the storm. Why am I crying? I asked myself. I was unable to understand what I should go back for. As I looked around, it was barren, all barren like my life, and finally, I moved towards my residence. As I closed my door a sudden thought struck my mind. If he does come, how do I welcome him? Look at the madness I am still in! As I entered my flat I found that everything was wrecked. My bedroom was open, and I rushed towards it. The mattress was torn open, the bedsheet was in tatters. The mirror was shattered. Everything was ruined, and I thought to call the police. Then suddenly I saw a diary on the corner of the bed and a red “Pierre Cardin†pen. Then I realized that all this wreckage was done by him. Each thing that we had shared was either broken or torn by him. And he had left that diary for me to understand what had happened to him and his journey till then. But was he interested in my journey and how I lived it without him?
