"The ease with which you let go of me reminds me of nobody but myself. I prided myself in being so detached that letting go was second nature to me. For you, it is the first. At least that is what I felt. I wasn’t heartbroken. I wasn’t in love with you, yet. But I was falling. Slowly, very agreeably, even happily. It did steal away some happiness. I am not sure if it was difficult for you to tell me no. It’s over, this thing is never going to happen again, you’d said. Your voice seemed sure, but the day later, I sensed residual affection. You were unsure. No, no more. Maybe, maybe."

The complete letter in the caption.

Dear P, It might have been just sex for you. A respite from the monotony and artificiality of this five-star compound pinned in the midst of a Haryana hinterland. A vent of light in the cloud of your confusion in matters regarding the heart and holes. A scent of affection and attraction that held promise to last just long enough. Long enough to part with you the day you take your Air India flight to Massachusetts, a word that your parents cannot pronounce. Or never part, as you’d craved once. I want someone to be crazy about me, you’d said. Did you really? As I type this, I fear it might be none of these but the quintessential sex-deprivation, the characteristic craving for intimacy, for a fleeting experience that borders romance and fills the temporary craters in your heart. For the time being. The ease with which you let go of me reminds me of nobody but myself. I prided myself in being so detached that letting go was second nature to me. For you, it is the first. At least that is what I felt. I wasn’t heartbroken. I wasn’t in love with you, yet. But I was falling. Slowly, very agreeably, even happily. It did steal away some happiness. I am not sure if it was difficult for you to tell me no. It’s over, this thing is never going to happen again, you’d said. Your voice seemed sure, but the day later, I sensed residual affection. You were unsure. No, no more. Maybe, maybe. Maybe could have become a hesitant yes, if M hadn’t come to campus and you two hadn’t bumped into each other. Your sense of alarm and discomfort upon encountering him was unpredictable. I lay stumped. Would I behave the same way if A arrived on campus? No, absolutely not. Would I if A knew that I slept with you? Maybe. I see it now. Then we talked. You were agitated. So was I. I never had to deal with as much tension in our conversation, conversation that carried seedlings of our mutual affection and a shared passion for the written word. I had to nudge you for a while before you agreed to let me partake on your time that day. You were throwing words on a blank sheet of MS Word. When asked, you said you were working on a new story? I hoped it was about me. I felt it was about us. I felt because I felt you felt that something was deeper than just sex, than just a respite for our hungry libidos. I wanted to read what you would write about me. About us. I wanted to read those unpredictable phrases, your gift as a writer, that follow each other with no connection but still manage to crackle, sparkle. Would I ever get a chance to? You didn’t let us be fucked up enough to mark my presence on your folder titled Writings. Ever since we slept together, you started calling me Happiness. It is the best name ever coined for me. I wish to be called by this name more often. Even so, in your voice—the raspy voice I didn’t like much earlier, but now I miss it when a day goes without hearing it. Yours, S.

28 OCT 2016 AT 18:02