What's a soulmate? ~ MaNan

Chapter 7

We dive into the past in this chapter.

I really wanted to write this to add more history and depth to their characters; I also believe it'll help you understand their decisions in the next update (divorce conversation) better.

Please don't forget to like, comment... and most importantly, enjoy.

~

Manik

I had all
and then most of you,
Some and now
none of you;
Take me back to
the   night   we   met

I think there's something quite melodious in the way droplets of water tap on the ground when it is only beginning to rain. It makes a feeble sound, yet you can hear it even when you're tucked away in a blanket in your room. It fills the air with the scent of raw mud that is intoxicating in a way that makes me want to forget everything I'm worried about and stare outside my window as the slight drizzles turn into devastating storms.

Even as a kid, I was always fascinated by rains. I was never the kind of child to hide in a closet when thunder boomed across the sky. I was the kind of crazy to sit outside with a camera in my hand, trying to capture the way lightnings strikes. It enchanted me, how such a small streak of light in the sky had the power to create such a tremendous impact, breeding fear in the minds of so many.

I think I was always twisted that way, being bewitched by fires and thunders and storms and all things that I was warned to stay away from. I had a bone for adventure in me, a knack to rebel, to do everything opposite of what I was told to.

It was only one such night when I stood in the art gallery, owned by my father's friend. I was sixteen then, in a crowd of all adults, there for an inauguration of the artist's new collection, a set of shitty paintings inspired by the idea of soulmates.

I was always a lover of art, appreciative towards other's handwork, but the set of paintings in front of my eyes were nothing but a dull combination of colours that my father's friend so proudly called masterpieces, and trust me when I say so, there was nothing interesting about any of it.

I was dragged there by my father but I would rather have been home, hanging out with my friends, doing band practice and discussing the keys to our first official album them lurk here in the wearisome display of crap that they called art.

So it was only fair that I didn't get myself involved in he mainstreams and hung out alone behind, watching through the glass walls of the art gallery at how it was raining outside.

And it was only fairer to a sixteen year old teenager's mind, to slip out at the first chance he got.

I had carefully looked over my shoulder to make sure my beast of a father was preoccupied in his fake smiles with the fake people he called friends, and left the gallery, but the minute I was about to step out, I heard something.