Now I can say that I wrote my first book when I was 20. Wrote, I said wrote, I never mentioned about publishing it. I wrote it so I could gift it to you. I wrote it for you. Day and night, sometimes at two in the night sometimes at four in the morning. I even wrote it during my exams so I could complete it before December, I wanted to be prepared with it before I would see you again. I was excited, truly, from all the depths of my heart. That book was about us sweetheart, about everything that I remember and you forgot. I keep writing stuff for you but I believe it’s the best product of my heart till date.
You refused to take the gift and things happened, horrifying things occurred including a flood and at the last minute that printing shop lost all its machines to the water and the book couldn’t come out of the device.
But in the process of writing that book I learned so much that even though you refused to take it (of course you didn’t know that the gift was a book, but now how much does it matters ? I am never giving it to you again. It’s just going to add on to the pile of my treasures.) it doesn’t hurts me so much.
I am used to this refusal. To this ignorance. To this hurt.
I am used to you.