Delicious Ambiguity | the rainbow named trust

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Chapter 3


I’ve laid down my words for you, layers upon layers of letters all for you. I hope you find them soft and enough for you to rest in.

I think the biggest heartbreaker is when you miss somebody, not on account of their absence, but rather on the grounds that they have negatively changed and you find it extremely hard—unable—to recognize them. It’s a horrendous feeling to be with them. You identify their face, their hands, their voice, yet some way or another they’re not there. My eyes fly to Zaahid’s. He’s fast asleep and is wrapped around me like a victory flag. I’m draped in Zaahid Noori, one of his legs thrown over and hooked around one of the pillows. He’s suffocating me with his body heat and he’s heavy. I take a moment to absorb my thoughts—I breathe; my mouth dry.

The past lines my present in fifty shades of grey. I faintly remember the days but the feeling haven’t dulled. The details of top five to the semi-finals are blurry mainly because it happened so many years ago but also because everything was fine and dandy in paradise until then. Then the results came and I found myself opposite Cherry Foxes. Go figure.

I witnessed the first lowest point—and hopefully the last—in my life six years ago. I started feeling like no place wanted me, like I didn’t belong anywhere for I was a medley piece in a universe of impeccable perfect works of art. Do you ever feel like that? I felt like a statuette of all the pieces people took with them when they left, pieces sometimes I voluntarily handed over to them and pieces they took without my permission. Then on some lonely silently nights I would take a hard look at myself and wondered what the heck transpired? Who did this to me? For what reason did they do this to me?

I always would begin searching for my flaws, my blunders because where there is smoke; there is a fire as well. I would immediately jump to the conclusion that I must have done something, anything wrong as nobody harms others for no reason at all. Truly, they do.

Yes, they DO.

I know it now. I gave indescribable amount of thought to this. Did I talk too bluntly? Was I loud? Was I quiet? Did I not laugh? Did I laugh too much? Did I offend somebody? And when the answers didn’t come to me, I cried, hard and raw. I covered the pain in denim jackets and loose shirts. I never reached out to people. I always felt like a burden—growing up I had a nanny to take care of me for my parents were persistently busy with work and parties, my brother had his own life and mine didn’t matter, then friends had their own problems and someone had to listen—and I didn’t feel like adding one more problem to their heap.

I wish I had trusted them enough to know that my pains aren’t mine alone, they can be shared. I wish I realized that some people—Harry—are in my life because they truly love me. I wish I understood how warmth is truly comforting and how it builds confidence. Alone, I cried and questioned what held me back and the answer was always—“hope.” I hoped that things will get better. But would it? Would the suffering end? Why was I hurting? Does it ever get better? The questions threw themselves at me like confetti.

Now six years later and a tad bit wiser, I will tell you that it doesn’t. Please save yourself from the damage. No one is coming to save you; no one is going to look around for you and notice the numerous amounts of time you put yourself back together. So, run, run and run until you find yourself. I know how heart breaking the blame game is, truly I understand, but hey, you’re a beautiful person. Yes, you are. I used to find strength in the fact that I managed to get out of bed, took a shower, smiled at my parents, laughed with friends and did my own work but as soon as I would return to my room, the smile would drop and I would stare blankly at the walls hoping for things to change soon.

Today I will say to you to look beyond the body you’re born in. Witness the bravery in your eyes. Do you see? I do. Do you see how brave you are for fighting for a world you want to be a part of so badly, doesn’t want you back? Endeavor to love yourself. I know it’s intense, I know it appears to be too simple to simply say it all things considered but love your chipped tooth, cherish your wavy hair, adore your dark colored eyes, admire your pointed ears, and fancy your long nose. They’re not imperfections; they’re a piece of you. Have you ever imagined how dull this world would be if everyone looked so ’perfect?’You make the world intriguing and clear just by being you, don’t you see? Do you know how marvelous that is?

I wasn’t an extrovert kid. I used to colour my oranges black and my wheels red. I liked glitter for meals and chalks for writing. I liked my music loud and my dance extreme. I read novels like my life depended on it. I never fitted in the society. Then, at my lowest point I had to venture out to not despise myself. I had to stop pretending as if I was another being, like I had another life—a second chance; because it was an abuse of the person I was. I had to learn to brush off the dirt of the terrible things people did to me, to characterize myself by how I reacted to these things and to define myself with what I did FOR others. I had to smile knowing what my mum would do to these people if she got the whiff of how mean and harmful these people were being to me. I just had to be solid simply like my mum was for me.

So, try not to define yourself by what some troubled, unsatisfied, oblivious people say to you because it makes them feel good about their hopeless, pitiable lives for two goddamn seconds. Imagine where I would be if I had let Cherry Foxes’ harassment get to me, if I had allowed myself to be intimidated by the grandeur of the reality show. It takes a lot of vigor to walk away from things that you really want to slash apart for hurting you. I used to stare at myself in the mirror and watch my tears rolling down my cheeks; it took a lot of courage to not wipe those tears away because I wanted to cry as much as I could and BE done with it. I wished the tears would turn into flashes of flame that will cut off the tie with, to that place or individual that was consuming me to slag.

I wanted to rise like a phoenix. I wanted to mend myself and I was the only help and all the help I had. So I examined myself. You should too. Examine what parts are missing. Your habits, interests, favourite things, your hobbies, can you remember your favourite songs from five years from now?

Make a catalog, sweetheart, I call mine, “The Re-establishment Hamper.” Of all the things that make you so goddamn happy you’re alive, it doesn’t need to be intricate things. It can be simple like: watering plants, the daylight that leaks on your bed at 10:00 A.M, hoarding cute notebooks, arranging stationery, dancing in the rain or playing in the snow, watching the sunrise or sunset from the rooftop, or arranging flower sequences, cooking a new recipe, eating pizza while watching your most loved show, looking for your doppelgangers or trying to see how many people have the same name as you in the world, how superb is that?

Do things that repair you.

Know what those things are. Recognize the activities that you stopped doing that you once loved—I remember I didn’t draw for years until I found my brushes again and then the most beautiful canvas I ever created was before me. On the off chance you might discover things that don’t interest you anymore, hello, so what? There is an entire world, brimming with lovely things and fascinating things. You’ll float towards them in the event that you let yourself free. Cut that rope that holds you down.

Be your own anchor.

Take a tourist trip of your city; do you know the place you spent your entire life in? Write a romantic poety to yourself, romanticize yourself. Write the poems you want someone else to write for you. Maintain a journal in which you try to capture the things that you see, amid the day, which make you stop and gasp in wonder. Once I wrote about how green the grass was of our backyard, how beautiful the butterful was that sat on the purple flowers papa had planted a week ago before he left, how silent it was at night and how I wished mummy was near. You don’t have to go into extensive subtle elements, about your day, only a line is sufficient. Remember your life like you encounter it.

Make yourself eternal.

Listen you and I underestimate what this life is really about. People are always going to hurt you, deceive you, let you down, abandon you for something better, drag you down with them. But there are people who do the inverse as well. They hold your heart with utmost care, they give you a place in their souls, they stay behind and respect you, they give you surprise messages in videos when you are world apart, they hold your hand without saying anything, and they sing you birthday melodies in public knowing how humiliating it is. Discover these people.

Assemble trust by and by, don’t construct favours. Turn a deaf ear to those who try to belittle you, or don’t, laugh in their face. And ask them, “pardon me, but do you know me better than I know myself? I don’t think so. So, what you’re trying to do here is simply revealing to me how pathetic you are. It’s okay. Continue, in the event that you should, however know this, I know what I am but it sure isn’t what you think.”

Build walls that protect you once again, don’t lock yourself in, though. Build a door and a window in it; enliven that wall with fairy lights and posters. It’s not dismal or forlorn to construct dividers, simply don’t fabricate them so you can bolt everybody out, or to lock yourself in. Others will never become weary of watching you from the outside; you’ll get tired of looking out. Don’t make yourself miserable. Protect yourself, okay?

Life is all in all, so short, don’t you see? This isn’t a training life either. Know yourself (it’s not all that troublesome, don’t stress, alright?) and after that simply act naturally. It’s alright; a few people won’t care for you, yet, guess what? It won’t make any difference, since you’ll know WHO you truly are and what they think of you—what’s lacking in you—won’t influence you one piece. The right people will discover you. Or you’ll find them. Don’t stop looking. Don’t think you won’t. You WILL. Trust me, okay? You will. I found mine in Harry.

Be thoughtful to yourself, to others. We’ve all been through enough. We’re excessively scarred. I’m going to make the rest of my life, the best of my life. And, I’m done being crippled by every one of these apprehensions and agonies that I’ve carried for TOO long, every one of these things that made me to droop my shoulders. I’m uncurling my back, I’m getting off the floor, and I am going to stand. Are you?


I tilt my head backwards and rest it on the headboard of the bed. I am still reeling from my extraordinary, newfound sense of positive energy when a notification pops up on the laptop screen and diverts my thoughts. I gaze up at the screen blankly, grasping for a coherent thought and finally smiling when I see the name flashing on the screen—Harry, and the only person I knew who loved me the most.

“I’m leaving a small reminder for a very busy couple to attend my daughter’s birthday party tonight, at eight, at my place. H.” Message delivered. 6 AM. 30th October, 2019.

The last time I met Harry was just two days ago—when we performed in London’s Wembley Stadium, completing the tour across Britain but we still had many more countries to go to—the European leg of the world tour was a personal favourite. A day after performing with the band, I had my own concert in the said stadium and while I was returning home did Zaahid call me up; due to that ‘call’ I now sat on his bed, beside him.

I reply back a confirmation of attendance to Harry and point out his faux formal message. His mention of a birthday party takes me back to the day before my first birthday in London.


19th July 2013 was literally make or break; it was the finale day of USO. My university friends had called and our banter moved effortlessly from bickering, to sarcastic retorts, to imagined self congratulatory smirks, to mainstream talking. “Calm down Lioness, yes, we did call on your phone but you didn’t pick up. Is it on silent mode?” one of them had asked me when I kept yelling as to why they didn’t call my phone but the house phone. I had explained that I had kept it on vibration mode on the evening before, just to make sure I wasn’t disturbed by my mum’s daily calls, before going out to dine with the crew of Ultimate Sing Off—as a form of celebrating the last day.

They had expressed their horrors when I told them that mum hadn’t called me that night, neither the day before—which was weird at that time too, seeing her record over these past years. I had shrugged, pointing out the oddity of the situation. Our colloquy soon died down when they had mentioned that they were running late for class and the reason they had called me up for was: what was my plan for that night—my twentieth birthday eve.

I recall expressing my happiness about the same—jumping up and down in my sleep shorts—and to mention that for most part of the day I would be busy with the preparations. Riya had puckered her face in disgust, I think, when she said, “that sounds bad,” but I was quick to outshine her, basically with the words Stephan had auto tuned into my system, with, “no, it doesn’t, especially when you have chances of winning.” I remember winking after that.


I smile staring at my twitter feed—answering a few questions, re-tweeting the ten second teaser Zaahid has released for his solo project, adding my own “So proud of you! <3,” to the tweet, wishing one fan a happy birthday, and smiling at the fourth anniversary countdown one fan has begun for us—all of this unconsciously, completely lost in my own thought process.

Awareness stems into my system when I realise that there are some unfinished episodes left. A, “what do you wish for your birthday?” is enough for me to again tumble down that path.


I had proudly declared to my university friends, “an Ultimate Sing Off trophy sounds good,” which was followed by a dead-pan silence, which made me feel that an explanation was in order. I was prevailed to continue. Our chatter soon died down when I had shooed them off, because they were basically missing classes for me—and now we didn’t want illiterate friends of a future-superstar, did we? Thus we had decided upon the tentative time of 5 P.M. to meet again at the venue.

It was almost two in the afternoon when I had entered my room after going through the morning rehearsals at the studio, that day, without my iPod—again due to the absence of it—which was uncanny given the fact that it was always in the drawer of the right hand side bedside table. My lack of conscious to check on my phone earlier was then gnawing at me. Maybe you left it at Nandos, yesterday. My subconscious had contributed snidely to my musings. Oh God, no please. I remember, chanting. I was called down in the common room for lunch as soon as I had decided upon searching for my belongings and I had to postpone the task. Who wouldn’t? After all its food...My inner goddess had plated herself with the largest pizza slice and I could not have agreed more, at that time.

On my return, I had searched my entire room better than any CBI or FBI could ever do. Each and every corner, each and every fold of the bed covers was turned, analysed, checked and re-checked. There was no success. Dammit! How am I going to survive my last-minute-before-performance quivers! I had shuddered at the thought. Sia’s titanium had been, is and will be my rock to lean onto when times got/get/will get tough.

I had glanced at the clock, and seeing time run past me, the anxiety had curled inside my stomach and before I knew it, the hour hand was about to struck four—which meant only three hours before the show began. I had to dress at that point of time because a schedule was set for me: dressing, interview, preparation before Sing Off. Surely performing well was a top priority then but that didn’t let me forget about my iPod or Nokia. That iPod was a gift from Papa, surely winning the inter-state ballet competition did need to be celebrated and encouraged, while the Nokia was my saviour in times of need and it had given me perfect service in the past years.

I had quickly showered and then donned on my mint green dress. It had a somewhat deep back, a bit of glitter and shimmer on the front and it ended above my knees. I had styled my hair in loose curls and my glitter heels completed the look. My clothes that time weren’t provided by the Ultimate Sing Off team. They had said that the finale would be the contestants responsibility, so I had to use most of what was left of my refunded college fees.

Interestingly, in some remote corner of my brain, that evening, my subconscious was desperately waiting for a call. She had hoped with her hands spread on the ice cold glass and her mouth struck against it watching the cars move past her house, like a little girl hoping for her father to return home early so they could go to the park and play.

When I had again glanced up at the clock, it said six fifteen. Each muscle felt tight, sprung for activity and I couldn’t walk. My body shouted at me to run down the hallway, to spend the vitality that continued heaping in paying little respect to my failure to utilize it. Indeed, even my face felt tight, such as grinning simply wasn’t a possibility for that day. My usual calm had been replaced by a carousel of ideas, each one more worrying than the last. How would it go? Will I win? Can I do this? Mum needs to call ASAP. Why hasn’t she called? Should I call papa? Forget it, he won’t pick up anyways—it’s always the same story, ‘I am at a meeting Maira’. ‘Maira, I am busy darling, I’ll call you back soon’. The thing was his ‘soon’ never came and our conversation even if it happened lasted for thirty seconds max.

Where did my things go? Have I missed placed them? Should I call up Nandos and check? I had quizzed myself. But, Maira you did have it while sitting in the car on the way back to the Judges house. My subconscious had whispered. Am I or am I robbed? What? No! My inner goddess had protested but my subconscious was looking everywhere but at me. She had moved to hide behind the couch and I knew she was right.

I. Had . Been. Robbed.

Panic is a four letter word. Yes it is. As every word sank into my system, my eyes flew wide and I ran about in my room to re-check. I opened my cupboard’s drawer to notice my Hewlett Packard missing. The right hand side of the cupboard’s locker had harbored jewels—if my mother’s small sphere shaped diamond pendant necklace was to be considered valuable; a necklace gifted to me for celebrating my outstanding performance in academics in high school and my only belonging of hers with me I had carried to Newcastle and then in London—and I had dreaded to open the drawer.

Taking in a long breath, I had opened the drawer and to my surprise the necklace was still intact in its black velvety Pandora Box hidden behind a greeting card. Thank God. My subconscious and I both had heaved out a long sigh of relief. I had opened the card gently as if I was seeing it for the very first time. My subconscious had frowned over her black cat eyes glasses. Oh well. My inner goddess had sat in the lotus position looking serene except for the sly, self-congratulatory smile on her face.

After going through my baggage, I had soon summed up the situation. The scenario was: my Nokia—my means of contact, my iPod—my only tool for rehearsals- but Stephan always insisted on having a copy of my songs with him so I did have a back up, my laptop—the one that had my videos for the performances to come, all of them were missing. The oddity that was eating my insides was: all my ‘technical’ stuff was gone, but my valuables. Everything that could help me perform was gone, but the money in secret pockets under the bed or the necklace in the drawer.

What? No, I didn’t get it. I looked at my subconscious. She was whistling with her hands behind her back, rocking herself on her heels and looking everywhere but at me. She hadn’t got a clue and my inner goddess was basking herself in remnant of high-school success glow. No—we were all clueless.

I had taken in a sudden intake of breath and stumbled backward, jamming my heel into the desk behind me. I winced. My shoulders shook in fear. The trepidation covered my mouth and nose with a porous cloth. Air passed through it and allowed my body to keep functioning, but it was crippling all the same.

The only thing in my mind was to walk faster, down the corridor and blurt it all out to Stephan—he owned that place, maybe he could trace my belongings? My subconscious had looked at me like she was unsure. I knew it was a great idea but she didn’t think so. I could sense the doubt radiating from her like heat off a radiator. This wouldn’t work if she wasn’t on board; I knew I had to convince her, but she was too questioning to easily persuade.

Isn’t the ‘Judges House’ protected? How can someone break into my room? I had questioned. Er? Because you are the most mismanaged person who got transported from India, who frequently forgets to ‘lock’ her door while moving out. My subconscious was pursing her lips and glaring at me—quite like my mother, she just needed a pair of rimless specs and a little more glowing fair skin.

To this day, I double check my doors—the main gate, the car door, the garden entrance, the cupboard door, the green room entrance, the bathroom. People don’t realize how their actions can scar another for life.

Why did someone? Are you sure, it’s a “deliberate” robbery? My subconscious had inquired again; she and I couldn’t come to terms with the event. Yes, positively. No ‘thief’ would have ever left back that Pandora Box. I had avowed.

I considered Stephan as the answer to all my problems but that morning he had mentioned the sudden addition of Symphony Thrills—the band people credit him for putting together—on the judging panel in order to give them a burst of publicity before they commenced their second world tour and I suddenly became less sure of the power Stephan held on me. Shaking my head to brush off the unwelcome thoughts, I had grabbed a glass of water from the side table. I had felt like every fibre of me was vibrating with fear and the adrenaline was coursing through my veins. My hands had trembled and the water did little to ease my nerves.

Symphony Thrills had been very popular for a boyband consisting of Nolan Prescott, Harry Spencer and Zaahid Noori which was formed just two years ago, back then, on the previous Ultimate Sing Off seasons, but there was something that just made it feel out of place. To coin an expression—it had been Stephan’s bend towards money—a quest of his to make more money out of the band. It hadn’t been rightly said that Symphony Thrills was becoming more of a ‘brand’ than a ‘band’ but I couldn’t agree more, at that time. It had been Stephan’s uncanny support for Cherry Foxes perhaps because of prior success of Symphony Thrills, that made their addition on judging panel seem more like a trick up Stephan’s sleeve than a sort of ‘experience’ for the band, you know?

The relationship status of Penelope and Zaahid had been doing the rounds since the audition days and it was also believed that Penelope was given ‘undue-advantage’ in the auditions. I had failed to notice their sappy relationship and Penelope’s the one who shouldn’t be touched’ attitude towards me until the card came along. The appreciation card was dropped at my room with flowers—that had my name on the card and on the envelope—just after the auditions signed, ‘Zaahid Noori’ on his band’s letterhead. Excitedly I had gushed about it to almost whoever I ran into. I even talked to the salesperson at Target during the week after auditions! Elatedly pictures had been posted on Instagram and then my account was on fire. A week later another card arrived at my dormitory subtly declining the contents and mentioning how it was for Penelope and what a big mess the delivery company had made.


A strong white light had smashed down on me, as a line of reporters had headed into the green room and I remembering myself had sat back straighter. An interview was supposed to be taking place before the show began—a form of remembering another successful season of Ultimate Sing Off. Or a video to soothe down, Stephan’s hunger? My subconscious had suggested. I ignored her. We all are full of flaws. I couldn’t just focus on Stephan’s hunger for money and ignore all the good times when he tried to make me not feel homesick. Though he still meant business, but he didn’t lack compassion.

Initially, in the start of the second month of Ultimate Sing Off, the love people had showered on me, the support they had given me and the enormous amount of papers my face was already in was overwhelming. It had seemed surreal, it still does but now the constant noise of camera’s clicking isn’t that exciting. The constant nagging of questions isn’t appealing. It definitely makes you feel ‘important’ and ‘worthy’ but now the scenes have changed. I still had smiled widely at the cameras, sitting in green room chair, because I knew that that could be it. Who knew if after that I had to return to my dorm or to move on to sign a Collins Telefilm and Music Productions Record deal?

"How did you end up at the auditions?”

“You’re an Indian so what are you doing in the United Kingdom and that too in London?”

The questions had snowballed at me; and I had almost immediately recited the answer what Stephan’s Media Handling Team had taught me. I remember coming up with, “Well, I was always looking forward to my Masters in Technology from abroad, so when I came of age, I applied at the University of Newcastle and got selected. I was pursuing to be an engineer but who knew a semester later I would be giving Ultimate Sing Off auditions courtesy my college friends who towed me to London.” I had smiled, fondling remembering the day Venus and Craig had dragged me to the auditions.

“How did music start for you?”

“I started to play the piano when I was eleven, I think and then the guitar and drums were just tad-bid add on(s) over the years. But I think, seriously, it started for me when—the actual hang of it— I went to a road trip to London with my uni friends and we ran out of money, we were hungry and we thought that someone might help us. But the world doesn’t revolve like that.” I had shrugged my shoulders as I answered.

“Yeah, so what happened?”

“The world is a big stage, isn’t it? And I have had a reputation for being the biggest drama queen. So, we performed under the London Bridge. The headlights of our car were my spotlight. I was singing and playing the guitar while my girlfriends were dancing.” I had flushed at the memories of Riya, Vitoria, and Venus spinning mimicking the world-class ballerinas, pirouette after pirouette. Surely their advanced Performing Art classes—in which they had taken up dance—proved to be successful. Recollection of my own coronation as the President of Imperial Productions, the dramatics society of college, made me feel humbled and overwhelmed. That society was what eventually lead me to be selected in the college band, without giving an audition, might I add.

“That sounds so cool!”

“It was. A crowd gathered soon around us and mid performance, they were dropping pence and pounds in it. My gang was elated, while internally I kept mumbling, ‘hey, I don’t do that for a living.’ Yeah, that’s when I ‘started’ for lack of a better term. That’s probably when they (my friends) got the vague idea of filling Ultimate Sing Off forms.” I had giggled into the microphone, recalling Sophia taking off my hat from my head when an elderly man came towards us with a pound note. Thinking of my lads, I had realised that I never got to meet them at the designated time, five. Maybe they would have called? My subconscious spoke, silently. How would I know? I had rolled my eyes at her.

The media had trotted off soon after and we could hear, Jonathan Keltz, the show’s host entertains the audience present in the room. Cherry Foxes and I were soon called on stage. Zeal spilled out of me like daylight through white, fine linen. I glowed from inside out. My smile faded in a split second as I saw the gathering of people, the judges, and the whole scene before me from the stage. Hanging my head low because of dread, would demonstrate apprehension, not an attribute I wished to publicize and thus it took everything in me to meet the eyes of the group of onlookers. It’s quite peculiar to find someone like me—someone who was so involved in performing arts—to harbour stage fear. I have been admiring the irony of it, still.

Jonathan replayed both Cherry Foxes and my journey on Ultimate Sing Off and soon followed that up with the rules of that night.

“The finalists are supposed to relay songs, tonight, no one ever gets to leave the stage, that is. First, one contestant shall perform as soon as they/she finish(es), the next song will be performed immediately by the next finalist.” Jonathan had tipped his fedora hat a bit and looked at us.

“There are a total of 10 songs, 5 each,” he had spoken eloquently. He commanded the room and took his audience with him.

“Also, let’s not forget to mention that there is a special round in Ultimate Sing Off: the first of its kind. Its uniqueness is what defines it! Are you ready for it?” Jonathan had teased the crowd. A huge round of applause filled the room, Cherry Foxes and I stood in utter silence on stage in complete darkness as the lights dimmed out.

If I was going to be anything when I left the stage that night, I would go and be brave. I had promulgated.

Courage is art.


On the front burner, I feel a smile stuck on my face. It just wouldn’t go. I tune out of the reminiscences and observe the cold, full cup of coffee on the bedside table. A thin whitish layer of fat and coagulated proteins is floating on the surface, which needs the regular skimming off.

The same black screen of the laptop is staring back at me, reflecting my blurry image—a haphazardly made shift bun on a pale morning face, an overly large sweatshirt (now as I realise was Zaahid’s grey hoodie) hanging from my typical, average, Indian sized body, and wearing a black, white and red chequered sleep shorts. The only noise in the room is of light snores of Zaahid, the ticking of the wall clock and my breathing.


Within all the weight falling on me, the silence of your heart is the heaviest by far.

“We can do anything if we put our minds to it, take your whole life then you put a line through it. My love is yours if you’re willing to take it, give me your heart ’cause I ain’t gonna break it” Song: Eastside by Benny Blanco

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

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