She lay in bed, her head resting on his soft, yet sturdy arm. Her eyes remained tightly closed, the only sign of her being awake being the warm tears that trickled on his arm.
‘What happened?’, he kept asking repeatedly, only to be replied in silence.
‘Have I done something?’ his tone getting more desperate with each repetition of the question.
She merely moved her head to the side, to answer in the negative.
He had not done anything, nor said anything that had caused her pain. It was her own past that haunted her, her own sense of worthlessness that had been rekindled by something he had mentioned casually in a conversation.
It wasn’t him, but her own memories. What could she tell him? How could she explain? Even if she tried, would he understand the whirligig of emotions that brewed in her head, her own ugly past? She preferred to remain silent instead, facing her destiny alone.
His restlessness kept rising with every subsequent tear that fell on his arm, and he assumed the role of a clown from an interrogator. All his attempts to make her smile or forget her pain were in vain again.
Nothing seemed to work.
Tired and defeated, he caressed her hair. In what sounded like a whisper, he said ‘My dear, I don’t know what has happened, you won’t tell me. But I want you to think about this – do you think we have adequate amount of time in this life to waste on staying silent? In what seems like a short and clearly-not-enough lifetime to be together, there is already so much to say, do and experience with one another. Can we really afford this waste of time in remaining silent?’
As his words seeped into her understanding, her eyes, red by now, finally opened. She looked into his eyes, that were just beginning to form their first pair of tears.
‘You are right’, she said, as her head gradually occupied the cavity of his chest.
Nothing but his simplicity had been successful in moving her from her womanly obstinacy.
Image taken from Google images