Dear D,

Dear D, is about a heart that didn't realize it would have to give up the only chink through which a tickling fragrance had just began to slip in, so abruptly.

Receded to herself, she bit her nails and shook her legs to pass her yawning days. She had always wondered if the heart within her was still alive, not because of how it was swamped with heavy blues, no, but because of how dimly it beat within her, without zeal, and without nerves. So lowly its rhythm was, that it had never even had the chance to come alive beneath its broken heaps. But during quarantine, an unusual, restless moment jiggles it up, if not all, then somewhat, a tad, maybe, or maybe not - she still isn't about ready to confront it. An online journey cut short too soon, she now tries to poke the incomprehensible, uncomfortable things abruptly puffing out and swirling around her body every now and then with the light from her mobile screen glowing her face in the dark.