3 MAR 2017 AT 5:16

If you do leave, I will miss you the most in my kitchen. Remember the first time you came home? You stood by its door, watching me sloppily steam tea for you. Nowhere like my usual guests who get lost in the jungle of books & musical instruments in my room. I asked you to pass me the milk from the refrigerator. You did, no hitch whatsoever. As if you knew exactly where it was kept. As if you'd kept it there the last night. As if we had been living together for years & tea was our daily ritual to inaugurate the night.

You were a cohabitant, a partner, space-sharer, the one who'd cry while peeling the dry skin of onions while I marinated the chicken. I'd give a peck on your tear-stained cheek as you inched towards the basin and ignore your potent warning that I'd be peeling the onions henceforth.

If you do leave, your warning would ring true. I'd hate that, as much as I hate peeling onions. I would end up playing she loves me, she loves me not, with it. Not the best game to play when my tears would convey your answer.

- हर्ष स्नेहांशु