After Midnight- [I Lost Everything]

So-so

[Aparajita]

"Identifying him!"

-❀-

People have this misconception about themselves that they're insurmountable in the masks they're stimulating to hide their reality. All of us, the ones who are maestro in the cognizance of these enigmatic facades, have certain urge to pester them with their reality, the reality they're running from, the reality they're hiding from the world. But the world from which they're hiding themselves, somewhere lacks the sensitivity of acceptance. People form opinions about others without knowing them. But when it comes to them, they become hostile about this matter.

Surely there must be some reason why they're concealing themselves in the cortex of masquerade.

And who can better understand this other than me?

Stashing your emotions from the world, not out of fear of being criticized by people but out of fear and trepidation of losing your loved ones. I'm consumed by overwhelming loneliness, the loneliness that can't be named, the loneliness which comes to swallow me whenever I stare at the ceilings in the night. Loneliness never ends, only enters inside you and grows briskly like mould, there is no end to it. However, there's only way that can help me overcome from this loneliness is the loneliness I achieve from the books, the loneliness that's clear, specific and actionable. I would never call books a tool of my escapism because for me it's not an escapism but a reality.

Crying over someone's sadness, when you're not allowed to mourn over yours. Celebrating someone's happiness, when you haven't experienced it in your life. Just fragments of someone's imagination, written with ink but bleeding with multiple emotions you desire to experience, you desire to feel and you desire to express.

I'm addicted to the loneliness that the camaraderie of books provide to me.

A man in his mid twenties, wearing a white polo t-shirt and black pants, with an expensive rolex strapped to his wrist, was claiming to be a researcher.

Isn't this too much for a researcher?

Probably every researcher is sobersides, mostly luxuriate in the study of coherent facts and esoteric conclusions. And that is why they're introduced to spectacles early in their lives.

He isn't even wearing spectacles.

There was nothing in him that would lead me to believe that he was a researcher.

His physique was giving off model-like vibes. The perfect jawline under his bushy beard, his deep amber eyes and his seductively flexible veins quivering with his every activity. An ideal man for bachelorettes to become their husband, for writers to become their protagonist, and most prominently for doctors to become their patient.

But as soon as he introduced himself by his name- Aditya Singhania, it was enough to raise doubts in my mind. I was suspicious when I saw my grandmother's library card in his hand. She gives it to certain people only. Why would she give it to a mere researcher? In order to strengthen my suspicion I deliberately mispronounced his initials, he immediately corrected me to conclude that my suspicion was correct that he is Aditeya Singh Sisodiya.

Only his name was mentioned on the internet and it was a distinctive name, not an ordinary Indian name. And I must say that apart from his name there is nothing in him that can magnetize you towards him. I acknowledge, I'm sounding like a caviller, but I didn't find him attractive, the way my favourite authors illustrate the first meeting of their lead pairs with personification of skyrocketing heartbeats, with long eye contact or attraction that draws them closer, with the fleeting collywobbles and with the purloining glances.