What we see and feel is usually called our sight. What we feel and see is what this world likes to call a hallucination.
Sebastian Robert, 26. MBBS at a local ED. When I was 16, that dates me 10 year younger from now, I had a friend. Mikeala Monroe. A blonde with medium hair, fair skin, honey eyes and heart shaped lips. Her smile made a painting of her cheery blossom face with each shade of pink possible, from the last time I had seen her.
2013 dated exactly 10 years back from now, I saw Mikeala for the last time. She waved me with the same smile of hers that got photographed in my mind as a forever first thing coming to my mind when I read her name or anything related; and her dress being a hint of tangerine blended in hues of a brilliant sunset. That evening, two suns went down the hill, but the one in blonde braid had my better concern.
That day, we had a memorable time. I had decided to finally thank her up for showing all her way to my birthday celebration and being the only guest I ever needed to blow off the candles on my cupcake with. Nothing could stop me from doing so, but a phone call from her dad. Or atleast, I believe it was her dad from the way she communicated. She was hurried up, almost forgot her school bag, and ran the down brigde as fast of some bird sensing freedom after a decade. Her desperation decided to mercy me for a moment when I realised that she had turned towards me and smiled in the most radiant way possible. She was my friend. But that time, she seemed unrealistically beautiful. In a way, I had had never felt for her before. She inhaled too deep, her lungs might not be able to contain anymore. She exhaled like the relaxing arms of a person carrying heavyweight the entire day and finally having a stretch. The way she was overjoyed, her smile was almost a splashing laughter; I was sure that her dad had approved her sister's wedding with her boyfriend. It was our last meet. As to say so, she had told me the other day that she'd be gone back to her town for some family event. A not too fancy but important wedding, to be exact. And she were to be a bridesmaid.
In a hurry-burry, what she didn't realise was her case of jewels, hair accessories and some make up she'd bought with me a while ago for the same was left behind. She glowed different when she said how much that wedding meant to her.
It's been more than just a while since I moved to Pennsylvania. Mikeala and I were friends since we went to Kindergarten, in Florida. I remember the day when there was a photoshoot at the KG. However, they clicked boys and girls seperately due to the differing of their costumes.
That click still hangs in my living room on the front wall, exactly 20 steps from the door with a wooden frame secured around it. What makes it immensely memorable is how each boy from my class wears a blue cap to represent the boy members and I stand there in the middle, with a huge smile and a tooth gap in brown hair covered with a glossy baby pink hat. Mikeala. She let me have that hat for how I had lost mine due to a windy day. The December air blew my hat off to the boundary of schools which I wasn't allowed to cross with all my tiny little feet. Among all the boys in a blue cap; there stood me with a pink unicorn hat.
That picture forever remains a memory and my smile in it is the absolute epitome of relief from not being left out without a hat. I thanked Mikeala that day and offered her my share of doughnut as a gratitude. That's been an evergreen inside joke for both our families for ever now.
Our times spent were never anything less than to be called well and worthy. She loved reading, and I heard her rant about sad endings from the books she read. She enjoyed dancing and I'd make her new remixes. She would correct my grammar and I taught her how trigonometry worked. Times changed when I was alarmed to assign a transfer from my school in grade 10th. It was all good till the 9th grade.
I can recall that morning when the world was the usual. The trains ran, the traffic gathered. The shops opened and the children would stand at the bus stop for school buses to come pick them as they reach for the window seats. It was the morning. The world worked the accustomed. But my world? It had shattered into pieces I had already lost. My dad's posting was changed. We were shifting to Pennsylvania the next very week. On the coffee table, the Monday Monday-ed in the most Monday way possible. Dad reached for his mug, as he crushed some grams of coffee beans into coffee powder and spilled the beans on his transfer. My expressions were seemlessly expected in the verdict of how awful I felt in the situation. Both, my mother and father knew who it was majorly about. The ultimate— Miss Mikeala Monroe. And why would they not be? She was just as distant away from being the closest friend I had ever had as a size of an atom. My dad tried to comfort me. He didn't appreciate Mikeala's presence from the beginning. Mikeala happened to be the daughter of a respectful lady he was once madly, crazily, absolutely, freakingly in love with.
Once upon a fateful time, my dad fell in love with an American lady who was bounded by her father on death threats to her idea of loving my father back. That's what I'd say; if I were to morph the history into a comprehension.
Both; my mother and I... Somewhat my father too, knew it was only unfair to dislike someone who had never been a part of the journey they were getting hated for.
