I turned in your direction and saw something I wasn't looking for.

I am at Parker's Piece. It's unbearably cold and the wind is taking great pleasures in slicing through my skin. Everywhere that it touches, it leaves pain. My eyes are mere slits, trying to keep the wind out. But the tears are uncontrollable and make me feel like I have lost. And how does it feel to lose something you didn't know you owned? I can hardly see what is being typed.

Alone, on a bench, with tears running down her face. Oh, what would they make of me? Do they think I have suffered personal loss. A tragedy that hit home. Do they smile ruefully at the thought of my assumed broken heart? Do they wonder if he was special? Or maybe they sigh pitifully at the thought of me alone. Scared. New surroundings can be deterring, they say as they nod at each other with understanding. But no one will care to blame the cold. Because our mind tends to dispose the obvious. It's too plain. Too simple. Too boring.

The bench is damp. Cold to my touch. My fruit market spoils sit beside me. Strawberries, plumps and cherries. I could bite into their deliciousness now but I don't want to stain my fingers red. Not yet anyway. Red specks around my mouth, on my lips. Little blemishes adorning the tip of my fingers. They make for beautiful company though, wrapped tightly in their blue polythene. It's only after we have lost everything that we are free to do anything.

The sun is setting. It has left behind faint traces of orange scribbling on the white canvas. Littered clouds. And there is beauty trapped in the many trees lining the opposite side of this park. They seem to be emitting the last of the orange sun. And then there is the mesmerizing blue.

There are kids playing football on this side of the park. Their shouts of glee and dismay are my only link to reality. It's too cold. You are too bold. And the smell of earth is tearing through the air, reminding me of things I thought I had forgotten. I am thinking of ancient gardens in far away hometowns. Little crawlies worming their way through the freshly dug vegetable patch. Of coconut trees that loomed high above and threatened to crack my skull if I asked too many questions. And since then, I have never been able to talk to a tree without flinching.

Confessions is getting intriguing with every turn of page. Autobiographies have a way of ruining apologies by presenting them on a silver platter of excuses. But then, he isn't Rousseau for no reason. And the cold has crawled through my clothes, my skin. I can feel it tapping my bones, nudging my muscles. Making it difficult to think of anything else. What's the point of baring the truth when you are going to end up covering it with lies. Unspoken is attractive. Ask any mystery writer.

To my right is the hotel papa and I stayed in when we first got here. An alien town it was then. There is a lot to learn in that little window of time I get with him. And it's a ritual now, this dropping off. Something that I cherish. Because when it is time for him to leave, he leaves me with words. Thoughts. Ideas. And I listen. There is a lot to learn. This time he left me with one word. Intention. Because if your intentions are good, nothing can hurt you. And if your intentions are bad, nothing can save you. 

There are leaves falling over me. And there is a Zebra on my shirt. I am Jacks's inflamed sense of rejection. I am Jack's heightened sense of surprise. I am Jack's broken heart. And I want to breathe smoke. Have you ever felt like destroying something beautiful? Oh, the ideas a human mind can come up with. Never fails to amaze me. Fight Club.

Warm thoughts. Hot meals and bear hugs. Old friendships and long baths. Problem with easy solutions is that they are not solutions. They are a way out. And you have made me suspicious of everything around me. I thought there would never be any distance that would hold us apart. No distance. But that was my mistake. And I am learning to live with it.