Girish,

I chanced upon the orange jute earring I have. One from the pair is still with you. Last time I checked, you'd kept it in your wallet. This earring reminds me of Diwali. Of how in that room it was us, and the sunlight, diffused and ambient. You were trying to play with a strand of my hair. We were in embrace for a duration I didn't keep a measure of. Felt like happiness rising from my toes to my lips. With my finger, I'd begun to trace crop circles on your chest asking you if I'd done the right thing, letting go of the internship. I was telling you all I wanted to do was spend all my days with you. No work to do. No where to go to, except to eat and to watch sunsets.

About a year later, I cut you off. I don't know what this feeling is, when I get jolted back to life, and look around the room I'm in. There's no trace of you here. Except for maybe in the sunlight that's still there and the earring. It's sister is still in your wallet, clinkering quietly between the coins.

I don't want it back. In fact, take the other one too.

- The Broken Clock