.... and I Will Be Flying On a Broomstick

I. Darkness, my old friend, arrives earlier than usual these days. When the sun sets, she enters my room quietly, flings her velvet cloak and settles down, making herself at home. The warm glow from the street lamp seeps into the room while the pale moon shines faintly above the city skyline. We sit in comfortable silence and yet, I can't help but feel your absence.   With nothing better to do, I pick on loose strands of memories and reality starts to unravel. A yellow post-it note. A postcard with the photo of a blue ocean. An orange T-shirt. A Christmas wish decorated in red and green. And just like the inside of the kaleidoscope you once gave me, the room comes alive with colorful memories ricocheting against these four walls.   II.   It's raining.   The rain and I, we have become strangers. He no longer tells me stories about all the far away places he has traveled, the people he has met and the things he has seen. Our midnight conversations have ceased

Others of my kind hate winter. They complain about the bitter cold and groan as they move their stiff limbs in the wind. They bemoan the lack of color in the surroundings, the loss of their flowers and gaze mournfully at people passing by hurriedly. But not me. I love winter. I love the way dusk falls in this season, quickly and silently, enveloping the world in comforting darkness. There are fewer people out on the streets and in the park where I live. They do not like to stay out in the cold for too long. I like the quiet and solitude that winter offers. I spend my winter evenings watching people who come to the park. A middle-aged man runs past with his earphones on. I wonder what kind of music he is listening to. Does it sound better than the soft whispers of the wind? A young couple walks past, hand in hand, the boy laughing at something the girl said. They look so happy and in love. I wonder which of them will be able to remember this moment in the future. Some night

Left. Right. One step back. Right. Left. For a moment, we stood still face-to-face and sized each other up to decide what our next move should be. Right or left? Our bodies did not touch but we were locked in a complicated dance. Our false steps and erratic rhythm proved that neither of us were prepared for this dance. Suddenly, a familiar tune rang out, snapping us out of our indecision and signaling for a change in the choreography. In a split second, a decision was made. The right decision would mean a train caught in time whereas the wrong one would result in having to run to work or worst, being late for work. I stepped forward to the right. The stranger stepped forward to their right. It turned out to be the right decision. Just like that, the deadlock was broken. We headed towards our respective train platforms, never once looking back. Dancing with strangers and racing against time. This is what Cinderella must have felt like, I though