I left that room flustered. I forgot what I said or if I did say something.

Lost!

For all I knew, the lost ones were pitiable! Was that how he saw me? Pitiable? And how was my poem ‘the words of a lost one’?

I went to the nearest washroom and there I saw my reflection. I was red in the face. It was the face of a mad person. It was the face of a lost one. My hair was a mess and my shirt was crumpled. I looked horrible. I looked lost, indeed.

But how? Where did he get that impression? What, he clearly implied it was the poem!

I opened my bag and looked for a comb. I always had one. It was there, somewhere. I ran my fingers through the notebooks and I spotted a yellow object so I put my hand into the deepest area of my bag and I felt for it. I retrieved the comb.

I fixed my hair up in a ponytail but my face looked like a mess still. Maybe it was my expression. I just couldn’t believe that someone I put of much regard asked me if I was lost.

Much regard? I didn’t even realize that until now but yes, he had been constantly in my mind for days. I kept on wondering why was he thinking the way he did. I wondered how his mind worked, how he looked at the world. But maybe I overthought things, which I wished I didn’t.

Without much thought, I found myself in front of him again, and he looked at me as if he was expecting me.

“I don’t understand,” I said and he smiled. How could he possibly smile at every moment?

“Sit down,” he tilted his head, looking at the chair and so I took the seat. “Which part exactly?” he said and he closed his notebook as he leaned at the back of his chair. He looked so laid back and I wondered if he took me seriously.

“The lost part,” I answered a bit daringly. I didn’t know where the confidence came from.

He leaned forward and he placed his arms on the table as he drummed his fingers distractingly. He sighed, “Tell me about it.” And I grew impatient.

“I don’t understand why you’d call my poem beautiful one moment then lost the next.” I said sharply and he chuckled lowly.

He seemed so amused. He was definitely making fun of me.

“Your poem is beautiful,” he stopped drumming his fingers and clenched his teeth. “That lost bit, well that’s just my impression, or interpretation,” he looked at me “You may say. And being lost isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

That was a relief but I still had questions. “Well to me, the poem contained the words of someone who realized the value of time.”