The warm vanilla orange sunlight filtered through the curtains and painted Maya's sleeping body in vivid shades, accentuating her caramel coloured skin.
the sound of soft classical music broke the spell of silence in the room, rousing the dark-haired purple pyjama clad woman from her deep slumber.
Making her way to the kitchen, after the arduous task of catching up on all social media activity that had taken place while she trapped in the clutches of sleep. She proceeded to brew strong coffee while gazing out through the kitchen blinds at the view of patches of blue sky visible between the skyscrapers. A newspaper rolled down the street at the foot of her building chased by a half-crushed soda can reminded her of the tag games she a n d her friends had played to wile away the evenings.
Sipping thedark brew, she eyed the teetering pile of examination papers with an expression of resignation ,before running her eyes along the quiet apartment. For a person once so particular about each object's location in her home, the flat was a mess zone. But it wasn't home, was it?, she mused.
Four months, 2 weeks, 2 days since every box had been unpacked, not like she had many materialistic belongings left, the memories she held more than compensated their lack. Four months, 2 weeks,since she had befriended the old lady next door.Four months since the doorman had learnt her name,
Three months, three and a half weeks since she had on an impulse spent the entire shopping for knickknacks to make the empty flat seem more homely, more an expression of her.
Yet, it wasnt home. She wondered if it ever would be.
YOU ARE READING
Concrete Pathways
Historia CortaLife by many is considered like a blank canvas. They find it dull,plain,boring. But what if the blankness is a premise offered to us, asking us to fill it in with ou colors, a metaphor to remind us that our choices and only our choices truly define...
