A cup of Tea.

A familiar person, Buried in files, busy with his work. A little away, there’s a cup of tea placed. Steam is rising from it. The scene seems like that of an office. It appears he’s quite occupied.

Suddenly, The phone placed among the files starts ringing. Its screen lights up. He leans forward to look at the phone… Maybe a message has arrived.

Reading the sender’s name, a glow spreads across his face. And his eyes light up. As if the one who messaged is quite important. He immediately picks up the phone. And opens the message. Types a reply. Sends it. Then another message comes, and again, he types a reply… This cycle continues.

Now, it seems there’s no task more important than this. Now, it seems there’s no one more significant than the one who messaged. Now, it seems there’s no other thought in his mind except replying to that message. Now, it feels like there’s no memory stronger than that of the one messaging.

His glowing face shows that there’s no one he loves more than the one messaging. Messages keep arriving. He keeps replying. He keeps smiling. His face keeps glowing… Love keeps growing. Time keeps passing…

And the cup of tea on the table keeps getting cold… but now, steam no longer rises from it.

It’s the weather of rain, which makes the scene pleasant. But,

But that sad girl sitting alone on a bench is turning this moment melancholic. That girl is making this weather seem gloomy. The light breeze is rustling the leaves on the trees. The wind is blowing her scarf.

The scene is of a garden, Where in two rows, benches are placed facing each other. Many people are present. Some are sitting, some are walking around… Some have bags, some don’t. Some are alone like that girl. Some are in groups. Some are laughing, some are silent… Someone is patting another’s hand and laughing. And someone, despite being in a group, is absolutely silent… Different languages… different people… different voices.

That girl, with folded arms, is looking here and there. Every now and then, she looks up at the sky. Maybe she loves the sky. Or maybe she’s lost something in the sky.

She keeps adjusting her scarf again and again. Adjusting it tighter and closer to herself. That scarf isn’t just a scarf, perhaps. There was a time in her life when someone really liked that scarf on her. And she really liked the one who liked it. Maybe that’s why she keeps stopping it from flying away. Maybe that’s why she keeps pulling it back.

She’s holding that scarf close to herself… Looking at the sky, she thinks about that person — The one whose morning and evening she once used to be part of. She’s thinking about the one who, leaving all his work, would start replying to a message. She’s thinking about the one who let his tea go cold replying to someone’s message.

That girl is strange. That girl is a fool. She doesn’t understand why she keeps thinking of him. She doesn’t know that he’s now too busy replying to someone else’s messages.

That girl, with her sky-blue scarf, sits there holding it close. Meaning she’s still clinging to what he once liked. She’s stopping his “liked thing” from going away. She’s holding it back again and again.

She’s thinking of forgetting him.

She’s thinking of forgetting him.

— The End —