An Ounce of Me (1 min read)

Today we’re moving to a new house, a new city. Mom says this old house is too big for us, now that my grandparents are no more. She thinks the void outside is slowly finding its way to our hearts and filling them with the clamour of lost souls. But is it only the dead who leave a trail of their voice within us?

This morning I stumbled upon a letter written 10 years back. I thanked God for little mercies that Mom hadn’t found it. It was written by me and never posted.

To Trishan,

                                               I love you.



Probably it’s the shortest love letter on Earth. But It was the most genuine form of romance that a 15-year-old could fathom. That feeling never gave me sleepless nights; nor did it call for attention all the time. It brought a soothing wave to my heart every time I saw him, standing outside his house waiting for me every afternoon as I returned from school. We hardly talked yet communicated through our smiles. One day the wave flooded my insides and I penned this letter down. But before it could get to its destination, he disappeared. I never saw him again.

The hurt faded with time. What remained was remnant of the innocence with which I admired him and an ounce of my old self. I put the letter in my backpack.

The 15-year-old me is still breathing somewhere, hemmed in by those three words.

Written by Chirasree Bose


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