Dear Girish,
The strangest thing happened today. I was at College Street walking past the lane of the bookstores when I decided to stop at Bubu Dada's tea stall for a cup of his famous Cha. I was sipping away, thinking of the day when we were here, and it was the first time you held my hand. It was also the day we kissed for the first time. Your lips tasted like tea the first time mine touched them. On my way back home,  I'd bought you a book on poetry, if you remember. We'd always trip on poetry. There was this particular poem, which I was reading, when we began making out on your terrace. The aunty next door could see us. You kissed me more earnestly after that. I got carried away. I'm sorry. The shop next to the tea stall had many old books stacked up. I walk closer and see a copy of the very same book. I flip through the pages and suddenly the book props open at the very same poem. "If-Rudyard Kipling". My hands tremble as I see the familiar lipstick stain on the left corner of the page. I turn to the first page.
"To Girish, Because we always trip on poetry. Love, Rya."
Fuck. Fuck you. You sold the book to an old book store. I don't feel bad for deleting your number last night.

Why, though?

28 FEB AT 22:19