…and in the end, you and I will count all the things that we didn’t do.
I will walk into my living room and stare at the wall that remained empty for want of a picture of us, the one we never clicked. The blank space towards the left of the showcase on another wall will remind me that it was waiting for the pearly pink conch that we couldn’t pick from a trip to the beach that we never took. And the dark rosewood coffee table will never hold the custom-printed photo book that would have captured all the mornings that we dreamt and talked about, but never managed spending together.
Countless empty spaces and yawning days and nights will nudge me time and again, cruelly reminding me of their barrenness while presenting the blueprints that were never implemented. The kitchen will remain bereft of the island that I would have sat you upon after scooping you up in my arms. The stove will never hear the red kettle whistling as it warmed up the water for the tea that we would have sipped on while fighting over the newspaper, sitting at the moon-white marble top dining table that never made it into the house. The windows will never see the beige curtains speckled with red roses —the one you would have picked up from a handloom store in a city that we never got a chance to visit together.
When it all ends, we will count all those fleeting moments when our eyes would meet as we let out smiles that never transpired into sighs from which we could decipher anything. I will count the number of times I debated with myself about taking a step forward and holding you close every time I walked you to your car. Perhaps you will count the nights that you spent awake, holding your drink while staring at your screen contemplating whether to send me a text or not.
We will count the times that we sat across the table looking at each other, waiting to break the silence with something more meaningful, but instead asked the waiter what was special on the menu. If only we had realized that it was us and it was that moment, which was special.
In the end, we will count all the pages that remained blank and all the ink left unused in the bottle, waiting for the right verse to be born, the one that I could read to you on a sunny winter afternoon as we sat on a bench in a park that we could never visit.