“Prove to her…”

Words that lingered in his mind, words that abruptly stopped him from sleeping, words that made him wide awake at night. Was it conscience? Or is it him saying to just give it up. It wasn’t a secret that he was still in love with her –he has been after all this years.

Cowardice -is a trait wherein fear and excess self-concern override what is socially-deemed as right and courageous action, opposite of courage.

He clicked his tongue then turned off his laptop. He’s been on for awhile, checking some business mails and attempting to find inspiration that would push him to write again.

“Write… huh?” he said practically to himself. He looked at his guitar across his room. It was the very first guitar he ever had –he remembered how he bought it after he knew Dara likes to play them.

He smiled bitterly at himself. “What am I doing?”

=0=

He was alone in his mansion. No parents, No siblings, No Bom and no Dara. The smell of alcohol filled the luxurious house; the feeling of emptiness was present in every aspect. He looked down at the table where a knife was placed. The guilt in him was strong, he wanted to tell everyone what he had done – he really wanted her to know that he was at fault. He knew she’s back, he knew she changed –partly it was his fault. Partly the death of Bom was his fault. He was suffocated, drowned in his own fantasy of cowardice. Was it really that obvious? Is he that stuck in the meaning of love itself? Why does it have to end this way?

“I didn’t mean to hurt you Jagiya,” He whispered. The coldness in his voice was similar to ice; anyone who hears him might feel pity to his state.

“I loved you… but I love Dara even more,” He said practically at himself, tears begun to fall. Uncontrollably it has always been this way.

Him crying

Him wishing

Him wanting

Was he that desperate?

=o=

He got up and walks across his room. He picked up his guitar and begun to play it. It was a familiar tune that he always heard Dara humming to. He walks towards his desk and grabs a paper and pen he started putting words and adjusting the melody. He spends his night making music and the inspiration was her, it has always been. But somewhere inside him, he doubted if she could hear this, the song that was made for her and only her alone.

“Will the muse hear my cry?” He questioned himself. And a bitter smile was the end of his piece.