N O T E
She is like the ocean; vast, always full of life, chaos itself. She is both life and death, and you’ll drown in her.
Lying on the bed I giggle with genuine glee, something that I haven’t done freely ever since the light in my eyes left with Zaahid on a cold morning. Nothing of significance has happened between us, today, but the novelty of spending a ‘month’ with him, under one roof, after six years, has brought back a smile that I cannot afford to lose.
I find strength in remembering how much I have experienced with and without him and how I can breeze through anything past that because that will be nothing; that will be nothing compared to what I have been through. What if I am the best thing that could have ever happened to him? And what if I am his most beautiful regret?
I am toying with the idea that it is possible for me to feel okay again in the future. Even if nothing is okay right now—even if he is the guy I can’t stop thinking about, even if my marriage is a pact, even if my partner is cheating with his ex, even if I fell for him on our third anniversary, even if I am in a one-sided relationship, even if we play the game of ’lets pretend’on every occasion instead of ‘What I Didn’t Do For Love.’
The boundaries of the present and the lines that mark the end of my past are becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish with each passing second. The faded blurry reminders keep flashing before me—demanding immediate attention. The reason I come up to elaborate this fact is: unlike my house, Zaahid’s house is a museum of memories and not empty hallways. Each wall has captured a snapshot of a time that has passed and displays the colours I can’t change. Every moment I’ve spent within them is beautifully framed and displayed.
When Wafaa came over last summer to her brother’s place she frequently complained how he had made a chaos of the house whilst I was away on tour—how some walls were bare and others hung too many family photos. How the spray paints spoiled the walls and how some pieces of ‘art’ just made the house look haunted. The backyard wall—has an alien and UFO of disproportionate sizes. Ask him, not me! In Zaahid’s defence, he only nitpicks how his neighbours didn’t let him do their walls.
I watch the memories of an exuberant past, though tinted with grief, stroll purposefully and with an easy grace into my cognizance.
After another, “Cherry Foxes? Take it away baby!” the girls had stepped foot onto the stage, but before they had even started off with the performance the eerie silence of the crowd had erupted into a loud round of applause. The lights on the stage had turned golden(ish)-red: a sad show representation.
They had changed into what looked like headphones attached microphones and had put up a contemporary dance performance whilst they sung. I had closed my mouth which had been hanging open, dumbfounded and stunned by their sheer brilliance, and had tried very hard to look displeased, but failed hopelessly.
Lily had taken two steps in front of her other band mates, after a few lines of singing, When You’re Gone by Avril Lavange. The staggered looks on their and Caitlyn’s face had underlined the unplanned move in bold. Her eyes had welled and her voice had begun to crack. My subconscious’ heart had reached out to her. Nostalgia had gripped her, big time. On the big screen behind them, Lily’s face had been projected—as if the poor girl was doing that on purpose, but then again that was news and it could have made the next big headline.
“Penelope Evans’, the blonde engaged to Zaahid Noori from Symphony Thrills, band mate breaks down on stage in mid performance.” Or something even more upsetting, “Penelope Evans’, Zaahid Noori’s new fling, band mate puts up a show to gain pity and sympathy in the Ultimate Sing Off finale round.” There were tremendous possibilities, each disgusting than the other—but then again, that was and is showbiz for you. The tiny tear drop that had formed on the rims of Lily’s eyes was then slowly escaping.
A faint memory had rung in my ears, standing on the sides of the stage recalling the barbarity a month before the finale had brought. If being with Penelope the living definition of ‘pettiness personified, bitterness given life’ was bad then receiving an urgent letter, with home postage, from the city hospital, at noon whilst lounging by the pool in Judges’ House was much worse.
The daughter of a runaway mother and a Lawyer father, Lily was perturbed. With shaky hands she had read the letter and for a minute she was too stunned to even react. Then when the danger had sunk in, she had run to Caitlyn to be allowed to go to see her father who was critically injured in a fire accident whose culprit was her little sister trying to light a cigarette in their garage. The hospital had wanted her to arrange the money for treatment.
Lily had been struggling to fill in the emptiness a parent had left behind—a year back, then. The mere thought of losing another had her angsty and even more foreboding. That month her father and she learnt that the person we love isn’t as good for us as we think. It is as simple as that.
My subconscious had offered her commiseration and I had flushed scarlet as a small ounce of sympathy for her had bubbled unwelcome into my consciousness. Lily had looked woebegone lying on the stage. Her fingers had traced footsteps, with the next lines. The rest of the band had been performing behind her, giving her center stage, using her breakdown as breakthrough. The rest of the group had completed the dance routine that was set for them. Crestfallen faces had gained attention. The song had stuck—a trick played, a task completed, a song opened to interpretation.
I had grimaced at the reception. Do you have a single bone of solicitude in you? My subconscious had snapped at me and I flushed scarlet. I was rendered speechless—not a novel concept for me, honestly. I had heard my name being announced and then walked over to the stage.
The lights had turned red and my background video that I had created on Stephan’s laptop due to security reasons had started to play. Thank god. My subconscious had exhaled loudly at that, nodding her head in a silent Zen like agreement. Before I could even start off with hitting my first note; I had heard a loud snip.
“Something about you, it’s like an addiction, hit me with your best shot honey.” I sung the first two lines of Certain Things by James Arthur regardless, but there was something definitely wrong. What the hell is happening? My subconscious had peered down at me, raising an eyebrow. I couldn’t hear my own voice. I had fidgeted with my ear pieces but they weren’t working. No! I had felt my nerves being tingled with a feather. Worry was all I could think about. My scalp had prickled at the realisation. I had stood in the middle of the stage, momentarily stupefied, trying to assimilate the morsel of information.
I couldn’t stop in mid-performance, thus line after line I had sung. I had been mentally pounding my feet on the ground. I had looked up to Stephan and noticed confusion in his eyes. I looked on my right where the girls were standing and they had smirks plastered on their faces. My blood had pounded through my body, thick and heavy with dread.
That night the insecurities of the world, tried to steal my fire. It tried to define the depth of my diligence. I had a voice and the world needed it—only I had to believe in it.
My curiosity had burned, blazed even, but I had resisted the overwhelming temptation to admit that even my microphone wasn’t working. My whole device had faltered or been faltered with? I had frowned; eyes cast low, fingers fidgeting with the hem of my dress. Don’t think too much, you’ll create a problem that wasn’t even there at the first place. My inner goddess had swayed on her heels back and forth, fanning me with her hands.
I needed to be in control. Everything will be fine. Just breathe. Take a deep breath? I had tried to tell myself but it was useless, panic was already marching down my spine. My brain had momentarily stopped and I didn’t have time to work things out. I had to move on to the next line.
As I sung I had run up to the judges table where Logan was seated between Caitlin, on his left, and Liam on his right; I just wanted the judges to hear me out. I had swallowed instinctively. Blinking rapidly, I was mystified for a moment or two as I looked around me for a way out. My senses were starting to cloud due to the anxiety attack I was facing.
My eyes had flown to Stephan who was seated between Caitlin and Megan as I sung. He’s my supporter; he’ll help me find a way. Stephan had mouthed to me, ”it’s useless to sing for us! Your audience has the last say in the decision.”
I had glanced at the audience and greeted their confused faces with my own perplexity. I had looked back at Stephan and I knew he was right. I was too consumed with anticipation. I just knew my face was completely immobile, my eyes huge, as I gazed at the Judges Table.
I had been gripped by silent panic, wild eyes, pupils dilated, heart racing and my brain was on fire. My brain synapses had fired like a hyped up internal aurora borealis, like a cluster bomb had exploded in my brain and had turned my brain into a stew of conflicting instructions, frozen in place.
Whilst singing, I had felt a hot breath on the bridge of my neck and shoulder. It sent chills down my spine. I had been deafened by my own breathing—it was shallow and erratic, reflecting my anxious state. A frisson of trepidation mixed with tantalization had swept through my body, making me more flustered by the minute. “There’s something about you. It’s when you get angry, you have me at your mercy.” I had gazed up at Zaahid from under my lashes only to find his hazel ones had been looking down at me. He had shaken his head, frowning, his lips tightening perceptibly. “And you’re like the shoulder to turn to.”
And I heard nothing, just my breathing and the pounding thud of my heart as blood had pulsed furiously against my eardrums. My face was in close proximity with his and his small stubble was almost rubbing against my cheek. His touch had elicited a delicious, tickly shiver. I had blinked at him innocently.
“Certain that I’m yours,” I had gazed at him impassively and my insides had clenched. Well, you could also hit an orgasm if he continued to stare at you like that. My inner goddess had closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of his lips on me and had whispered as my pulse started to accelerate.
Gazing at the Judges Table I had comprehended that I was standing before Harry—mere five steps away from me. Zaahid had been nearest to me and within my reach for my next line, so, the next thing I had known I did was, I had turned his chair around, greeted his confused looks with my own anxious ones and just when he was about to say something I had put my fingers on his lips, bending low over his face and used the microphone attached to his shirt. His eyes had widened again and I dreaded his rejection. What if he pushes me off? I had debated. My subconscious was supine in the face of my wayward rushed decisions.
He had blinked, and then narrowed his eyes, gazing at me speculatively as if weighing up alternatives. Time moved, expanded and had slipped away before warmth settled over his features. I had been vaguely lightheaded, faint as all the blood left my face when I saw a glimmer of evil in his eyes. Will he push me off because I’m competing with Penelope? I had interrogated.
Relief had washed over me when Zaahid finally clasped my waist in a firm grip and got up from the chair. In the moment that passed I think he figured out that I had been using his microphone. He’s helping you! My inner goddess had grabbed a rose between her teeth and had started to tango.
Our feet collided with one another and I almost stumbled. He had placed his fingers on my elbow, gripping me tight, helping me maintain my equilibrium. Involuntarily, my hands were placed on his chest. Our faces were still in close proximity as I had been using the microphone but he made things easier for me when he had taken out the microphone from his shirt and had handed it over to me. Thank god. I had gazed at his beautiful face. He kept his eyes on mine, hardly blinking. Oh, he’s so breathtakingly good looking. My inner goddess had let out a low whistle.
I took a few steps backwards so as to maintain a nominal distance between Zaahid and me only to be pulled back against him. My scalp prickled as every single hair follicle on my body stood to attention, and the world fell away from me, leaving a wide, yawning abyss for me to fall into. What is he doing?
I had gasped at his gesture. Who does he think he is? And by whose permission is he laying his hands on me? I had mentally fumed. I had straightened and stared at him; he was watching me, wide eyes, bemused. My subconscious was shaking her head angrily; my inner goddess was nowhere to be seen. His arm had snaked around my waist, holding me close to him, his eyes were gleaming. I had been mentally shouting profanities at him while The-King-Of-Hearts, dressed in skinny black jeans and white t-shirt accompanied by a navy blue blazer, closed his eyes and exhaled. His body language read that he was frustrated, and indeed he was. He had let out a forced exhale, running his hands through his hair in pure frustration. Jeez...what have I done?
He blinked down at me; I had raised my eyebrows questioningly. He had firmed his grip on my elbow and waist and my eyebrows furrowed in pain. I had fought his grip looking down at his hold and that’s when I had realised that he was trying to tell me that a monitor and an ear-piece were attached to his microphone. What!? Are we now going to act like Siamese twins? I had questioned myself. Perr-rr-fect. My inner goddess had dressed herself in red ballerina boots and tutu skirt and poised to make her Prima Ballerina Assoluta worthy pirouettes.
Zaahid had turned me around, careful not to mess the wires and break the connectivity of his microphone. His hands grazed my back as he pushed my hair over to one side. He had fidgeted for a while before he tried to insert the earpiece. Oh crap. My subconscious had cringed. My hair was styled in loose curls and it had been highly impossible for him to insert that earpiece given the fact that my hair was flying around due to the on stage air machine, some had stuck to my face due to sweating and some had decided to not cooperate with Zaahid. I had turned around to figure things out on my own only to discover that he was wrapped up in wires. My device was in his hand, which he plucked out from my dress and his device was hanging from the wires.
The whole scene was in front of us: the wires were messed up, Zaahid was working hard to try to sort them out and I was there standing in between a performance trying to complete a song with my monitor. I think I was in shock. My subconscious had emigrated or been struck dumb or simply keeled over and expired. I was numb. I could observe and absorb but not articulate my feelings about all this.
Taking in a deep, purifying breath I had tried to gather what was left of my equilibrium. I sung but when I had opened my eyes to feign confidence, my gaze directly fell over Penelope. Her posture had read “self congratulatory” but her face had flashed emotions mixed with envy and anger. I had looked down at my waist after a small tug at it broke my eye contact with Penelope. It was Zaahid.
He solved some of my problems after he had separated my device from that tangled mess. He broke the microphone from his device only to be left with the microphone. He had mouthed a “sorry” to me, walking back to his seat, while I nodded and thanked him.
So, I had been left with his microphone which had no monitor, and my own device gave me only the drum beats of the song. Great, absolutely fantastic! This is how I will win Ultimate Sing Off! I had sighed sarcastically.
I had prevented heading back to the stage. It was rightly said, once bitten twice shy. It literally gave me a terrible feeling when I had realised that maybe that performance could be my reason for failure. It could have ended a wonderful season at Ultimate Sing Off.
When you are brought up as me, your birth certificate has a check list of goals. You have your life planned out since you’re five. You have ambitions to follow from age ten. Your dreams aren’t yours only—they are of your parents, your grandparents, and your extended family’s. Each life changing decision is calculated and every risk measured. Eventually this leads to perfect endings—like the ones me or my family dreams of. But Ultimate Sing Off? It was the result of a rebellious streak, a result of wanting to do everything I couldn’t because of my carefully packaged life.
Six years ago I learned the hard way that some dreams never do come true; some love doesn’t hit the target. I did everything right and still wound up miserable. I regret not knowing that when it comes down it—life is tied in the not knowings, in making yourself proud on your own terms. It’s a delectable vagueness—a delicious ambiguity. It’s about finding a happiness that works for me.
The finale night episode was a novelty for me—the courage I showed, the faith I displayed, the battle I fought despite the world trying to ruin the softness I so proudly wore. It taught me the dirty things people did out of revenge, and how just one appreciation card can set someone’s heart on fire. My subconscious that day was at her snarky best. In religion we call it spirits. In science we call it energy. In the streets we call it vibes. All I’m saying is trust it.
Gia and Harry teach me that happiness is a choice; and to never put your happiness in other people’s hands. They’ll drop it.
They’ll drop it every time.
They are trying to ingrain the goal in me since the last two years that when I arrive at my grave, I should be late, in love and a little drunk. They want me to chase light in a way of nurturing it within me and the people around me and to always feel alive. They press me on doing more poetry nights and painting on peaceful mornings—doing things that warm me, make me feel safe in the world.
Harry publishes my poetry online on this website, anonymously, and the reviews break his heart. They say the writings are sad and uncomfortable and their own kind of gorgeous. It irks him no end to hear people comment another’s brokenness as ‘beautiful.’ You wanting to end your life is NOT beautiful. Period.
Taking in deep breaths and moving onto a comfortable posture, I forget the present and listen to the symphony of the wind.
Cherry Foxes had performed their next song, Diamonds by Rihanna and the lights on the stage had dimmed out. A large white sheet, placed in the center of the stage, got illuminated with yellow light and silhouettes of four girls had appeared behind the screen. The fog machine had sprayed fog onto the stage and the pungy, musky smell filled the air on stage, I had scrunched my nose in disgust. Who invented these? My inner goddess had questioned, her expressions flummoxed. She had held out her CLEAN Air Eau de Parfum and sprayed it into the room, generously, while her other hand covered her nose and mouth, preventing the musky smell to clog her beauty pores. How about we focus on getting the microphone changed? My caustic subconscious had hissed out as she made her umpteenth public appearance and haughtily turned over her heels and walked off. Jeez...she was shrewd.
I had made quick strides in the dark and reached the dark backstage area to get in touch with the authorities. Coordinators were profusely talking on handsets and making calls, eyes closed shut in concentration, some had placed their hands over their head sets to hear better and some just stood at the corners, mapping if the show was going according to set script. A lot had been happening behind the screens, there were so many guards and “crew” clothed people. I did not want to make myself noticed because according to the rules—I wasn’t supposed to leave the stage.
So, in silence I had searched for the microphone coordinator. After I told him by problem and witnessed his horrified expressions when he had recognised me, I made a puppy eyed face at him to seek his pity; he finally had agreed to get me another microphone. How come he didn’t already know? My subconscious’ voice was quiet, gazing at me impassively. I thought I had made headlines the moment I chose to use Zaahid’s microphone.
“Zaahid Noori from Symphony Thrills helps out fiancées competitor. Is he a cheat?” “The Hazel eyed ST star caught in close proximity of Ultimate Sing Off contestant.” “Hot Hunk of Symphony Thrills found cheating on new blonde girlfriend.” My inner goddess had read out the probable headlines of the day after’s The Times of Britain in her overly dramatic voice.
A clonk had cleared my line of thoughts when I saw “CREW” clothed people run past me, pushing each other and jumping on the wires that had been haphazardly spread out, towards the small screen in the control room—just adjacent to the main stage. The room harboured a small T.V. and was the cynosure of all the happenings on stage. A medical practitioner was on his way to the side of the stage. What? I thought carpenters are the ones whose rectify stage problems. My subconscious had watched fascinated, mesmerised.
Standing on my toes (in my heels—that’s me for you) and stretching my neck as far as I could go, I had tried to take a peek at the screen. Resting my hands on someone’s shoulder I had raised myself up and noticed that Jane had slipped from the stage and probably her sandals had broken too. Now, I get it. My subconscious had nodded her head slowly. Wait! Where were these people when your microphone malfunctioned? My inner goddess had turned around in her high royal red chair, legs crossed, sitting in hubris, hands folded, and fingertips touching each other. Her gaze was scrutinising me.
Strong fingers had gripped my upper arm and tugged at me, pulling me out of the control room. I had gasped at the foreign touch and had closed my eyes tightly, prepared to scream for help. ”What the hell are you doing here?" I had heard an all too familiar voice and I froze in place. As sanity returned, I had opened my eyes and gazed up into the face of a man with a fedora hat. “What are you doing here?” he had chided his eyes suddenly wide and alarmed.
“Umm...Jonathan, I need to change the mic—” I had said but he cut me off by pushing me towards the stage.
"Hurry, on stage now! You start with your song in twenty seconds!" he had whispered shouted at me, wide eyed. He had glanced over his shoulder before he said, “I am sorry, but we can’t wait for a new microphone. It’s a relay round, you go on stage now or you wait here for the microphone and go home, the choice is yours.”
Swiftly turning on my heels I had headed for the stage.
I had been sat on a high royalty red chair—just like the one my inner goddess sat on—wearing cat eyes rimmed glasses and black jeggings over my mint dress. After returning from backstage I had managed to change into my new outfit and had tied my hair in a loose ponytail along with clipping Zaahid’s microphone onto my dress. How? My subconscious had panted. Well, school taught me to get ready in five minutes, so changing into clothes and tying hair into a pony tail, wasn’t a biggie. I had shrugged.
I had known the risks involved with that microphone—without monitor—whilst performing but I had to remind myself the steely spirit I was born with, the resilience and strength my mother had passed down to me. “I do my makeup in somebody else’s car; we order different drinks at the same bar. I know about what you did, and I wanna scream the truth.” The chair had turned around on cue as I sung, Green Light by Lorde. The lights on stage had dimmed out and had flashed a harsh green light, increasing the demeanour of the room. A loud round of applause filled the room and an ecstatic smile had lined my face. I had walked down the steps of the chair like Queen Victoria, my eyes acting like lasers, feigning confidence and sass, which I had lacked at that moment.
The background dancers allotted to me had joined me on stage and then I was dancing along with the beats. So much had elapsed within a matter of an hour that my chances to win were slim and I was aware of that. I had also been aware of the fact that I could enjoy the moment while it lasted and that was exactly what I did.
Recreating a city life scene, I had walked towards the edge of the stage and opened my hair on beat and threw the glasses in the audience. I walked towards the center of the stage in my glitter heels, mimicking The Next Top Model’s catwalk. Singing, the lights had simmered down, softening in colour and intensity as one of my dancers walked towards me and asked me out for a dance. “Did it frighten you? How we kissed when we danced on the light up floor?” I had held his hand as the lights turned blue and pink and the song ended. A stupid wide grin had continued to stick to my face as I heard the applause in the room, while walking off to the edge of the stage.
I twitch out from the quondam days. Blinking my eyes repeatedly, adjusting to the bright lights, I slowly get up. My eyes lazily fall onto a black string on the floor and I lean over to examine it.
I see halves of a photo lying near the leg of the bed and a broken “Yǒuyì” symbol necklace. The picture was of an Indian brunette and a fiery orange haired girl, torn apart right from the place where they were linking arms and posing idiosyncratically. It’s still here? My subconscious questions, reminding of the day when I had angrily returned from the restaurant, Cantino Ridge—I don’t go to anymore—and tore the picture in halves and snatched the necklace from my neck and thrashed it on the floor.
Sometimes, friendships come with an expiration date where every beautiful thing ends and quite often responsibilities choose us and not the other way round. Sometimes we have stop fighting for the ones we’ve come to love; and it is okay if life doesn’t throw them back at us. The art of timing is essential here. There is a time for quietness—where silence does its job. A time to finally let go and allow people to launch themselves into their own fate. And there’s a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it’s all over.
We don’t always get explanations. Sometimes, things happen to us that truly don’t make any sense at the time and often years later, we still search for answers to those lingering questions. It happened to me four years ago, half a year before another decision turned my life upside down. I still have the whats, the whens, and the whys. One day we were laughing loudly, and the next I was angrily leaving a restaurant, tearing my favourite picture of ours, destroying the twin necklaces we had.
I had seen her standing in the crowds on Heathrow airport when I had landed for the European leg tour dates after finishing up Australia on my third world tour. Due to my constant change of numbers, I had lost Venus’ contact so when I saw her amidst the crowd, I immediately pulled her onto the sides, because my best friend doesn’t need to be in lines to see me.
She was elated to finally see me after so long. We left the airport arm in arm to our favourie place, giggling and chatting as we caught up and then her phone rang. She got news—and she broke down. Then her expressions changed and suddenly I was the one at fault. I loved her grandmother, we had met quite a few times in Newcastle, but her having a seizure attack and then losing the battle to a heart attack doesn’t really bring me into the picture. But nevertheless, I was shouted upon and called all sorts of names from ‘harbinger of bad luck’ to ‘bad omen.’ In a restaurant—Cantino Ridge—full of people, I was tearing down myself, while Venus kept loathing.
That day, we both lost something. She lost her grandmother and I lost a friend. And since then, we haven’t spoken—it’s a sort of a silent agreement.
The movies we watched, the books we read taught us that letting go equated with to not loving them, but as I grew older, I realized you can be mad at someone and still miss them. You can be in love with someone and still let them go. There wasn’t anything wrong in wishing them the very best and still bid them farewell and perhaps that is why I hang around in relationships longer that I should, because it hurts to watch something I love transform into something I should hate. I can sit and wait for it to go back to it’s original form—in denial—as I ignore the fact that what I see was always there and what is now, will always be.
I’ve been through a lot in the short twenty six years of my life. I have had my own handful rollercoaster ups and downs and a bagful of a mix of everything in between. If there is one thing I can swear by is the relationships I hold with people close to me. I am not perfect—in any way, or form, or shape. I have made mistakes, lots of them. I have hurt people, I never meant to hurt and for an undefined length of time I have questioned my own character but throughout my growth I have learnt that some people aren’t always meant to stay in your life.
Venus made me aware of the fact that I was changing—evolving and learning and growing. If I hadn’t I would never move on to the next chapter of my life. However, there’s a difference between changing and growing together and changing and growing apart. I give people a lot of second chances, I give fucks when I shouldn’t and I care when there is nothing left to care about. Trust is a fragile little entity that I cannot live without and I cannot hand out easily. This world is full of cruel wolves.
For many, many years I trusted Venus with my life but the minute she turned her back on me, I had to let her go. I have an innate ability to forgive easily but that blessing is also a curse. Love is always a double edged sword—letting her go left a void in me that I am still trying to fill. There are days where I miss her dearly and want only her opinion on things but one too many times is too many times.
She betrayed me in one of the worst ways possible and left me hanging out to dry. I defended her often, stuck through thick and thin beside her and stood up for her no matter what. In the end, all it did was made me look foolish in a restaurant full of people. I have changed as a person in the last six years. Six years ago, I would’ve let her continue to walk all over me and would’ve said things were okay between us when they weren’t. I’m not saying I didn’t make my share of mistakes because I’m sure I most definitely did. But you don’t simply play Judas on the one individual who never hurt you.
I left her behind because she has a place in my past, not my future.
No matter how many photos we remove from our time lines, the love will always be carved along the hallways of our deepest thoughts.
“Would you rise up, come and meet me in the sky? Would you trust me when you’re jumping from the heights? Would you fall in the name of love? When there’s madness, when there’s poison in your head. When the sadness leaves you broken in your bed. I will hold you in the depths of your despair” Song: In The name of Love by Martin Garrix and Bebe Rexha
Please drop me a comment or a vote if you think this deserves it and give me a chance to improve. All the love as always, Mahak xx