The final bell of junior year resonated through the bustling corridor, a sound that typically heralded liberation, yet today, it felt akin to a door closing. I observed as Sarah vanished into the crowd of students, her vibrant pink backpack bobbing like a buoy amidst a sea of faces. Throughout the year, we had been in a silent orbit around each other, exchanging glances in Ms. Peterson's English class, sharing fleeting smiles across the busy cafeteria, and enjoying the comfortable silence during our study sessions in the library. We never uttered the words 'I love you,' but the sentiment lingered, didn't it? In the way her stormy-sky-blue eyes consistently sought mine, even in a room filled with chattering peers. In the way she would chuckle at my silly jokes, her laughter reminiscent of wind chimes swaying in a gentle breeze. In the way my heart would perform a clumsy tap dance whenever she was near. Today marked a departure from the norm. It was the final day before summer break, the last day we would share the same school, the last day of our current selves, as Sarah was relocating. Her father had accepted a new position in another state, a place with a different sky, distinct trees, and unfamiliar faces. I had anticipated this moment, having known for weeks, yet awareness did little to alleviate the pain. We had discussed it, of course, in hushed tones beneath the bleachers after our last English exam, the setting sun casting long shadows across the vacant field. 'It's not forever,' she had murmured, her voice barely audible as she traced patterns in the grass with a fallen leaf. 'It feels like it,' I had responded, the words heavy in my throat. We had vowed to maintain contact, to text, to call, perhaps even to visit. However, we both understood that promises made within the delicate confines of high school often crumbled against the harsh realities of life. Circumstances evolved. People transformed. Distance stretched like an unyielding rubber band until it ultimately snapped. Now, as I stood in the hallway, watching her fade from view, that reality struck me like a blow to the stomach. I experienced a surge of something akin to despair, a hollow ache in my chest that threatened to engulf me entirely.
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A Cup of Tea
On a brisk January morning, I stepped out onto the small balcony of my aged apartment. The sun appeared as a gentle blur behind the mist, timidly emerging from the winter's embrace. I tightened my shawl around me and paused for a moment, allowing the tranquility to envelop me. The street below was still in slumber — a newspaper boy on a bicycle passed by, yawning louder than the sound of his bell, while an elderly dog sprawled on the sidewalk as if it owned the world. Inside, the kettle began to whistle. I turned back, welcomed by the warmth of the kitchen like an old companion. My hands instinctively reached for the tea tin, the same faded red one my mother used to possess. I am unsure why I have preserved it all these years — rusted at the edges and faintly scented with cardamom and nostalgia. I carefully measured the tea leaves, added a slice of ginger, and waited as the fragrance filled the room. There is something uniquely soothing about brewing tea. It is a simple ritual, yet it encompasses entire realms within it. The clinking of the spoon, the gradual swirl of milk, the gentle puff of steam rising — all resonate like notes in a cherished melody. As I poured the tea into my chipped blue mug, my mind drifted to the past. It is remarkable how a cup of tea can evoke so many memories — not merely of individuals, but of silences, smiles, and rainy afternoons. I recall my grandfather... He would sit on the balcony each morning with a cup of robust Darjeeling tea. He rarely spoke during those moments. Instead, he observed the world passing by — the rickshaw pullers, the schoolchildren, the morning newspaper arriving late as usual. I would sit at his feet, cradling my own small cup filled mostly with milk and a hint of tea, pretending to be an adult. He imparted to me that tea should never be hurried. It was not merely a beverage — it was a pause. A quiet defiance against the day's chaos. I remember my college days... When tea signified five rupees, two steel cups, and an hour filled with laughter. The small roadside stall...
By Sajid Ahmed9 months ago in Writers
New Doors To Open - A Mikeydred January Dollar Prompt For All Vocal Creators
Introduction The Five Tip Stories Added Every so often, I set prompts in the Vocal Social Society and offer a dollar tip to five random creators who take part in it and ask them to share their stories in the comments and on the thread in the group.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred a day ago in Writers
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