There will be days like this, she had written, where you will not believe in the goodness of others. You will see dark clouds only. It will hurt and you will be frustrated of it hurting. You will be gripped by terror. You will feel disillusioned by everything. You will feel naïve and vulnerable. You will read poetry; listen to poetry; write poetry because only poetry made sense. You will feel stretched out and few things will make any sense. You will develop strange, destructive habits you know are not good for you. You will begin to speak in a language others might not understand; this phase shall pass. You will also simultaneously learn to hold terror by its throat and set it aside. There will be days like this, she had written.
Today was a day like that; I missed her by my side. Reading her notes to me, over the years, was not enough. I wanted her to whisper them in my ear as I drifted into a disturbed sleep. But sleep nonetheless. It was better than staying awake, anyhow. Surprisingly, we had never read to each other. Seemed creepy back then. Now it seems like a memory I wish I had made.
It was just one of those days when everything reminded me of her.