April 19, 2017
Remember the day when we were in playschool and took the bold decision of going in the woods by ourselves. Our mothers’ feverish relief and vexed worry when we showed up unscathed a couple of hours later.
Remember what we promised in the span of those two hours?
Hope is like a tender bud on a withering plant. A plant with shrivelled and crumpling yellow leaves, a mangled and twisted stem. Something as beautiful as the flower does not belong there. But it still is there. Tender. Blooming.
And one day withering away too.
With tiny little pinkies intertwined, we had promised to never let each other be sad. I am breaking that promise today.
I am sorry.
Like the flower, my hope has withered away too.
And without the flower, there is no reason for the plant to be alive.