Every night as she quietly went to bed, her companion was only the table clock in her room that kept on ticking. She remembered that her room was once the colour of the ocean. The dark blue, that was almost black. But she had pasted whit pages from different notebooks all her the walls to hide the wallpaper. Everything blue was removed from her room. She despised that colour.

Then after years someone asked her, " Why don't you like that colour? You don't wanna remember the oceans?"

"No, I don't wanna remember those eyes which were dark blue and was almost black."
Every morning she left a yellow rose on his grave. Yes, yellow was his favourite colour. The one she gave him on his every birthday.

Feeling lonely is now a daily routine. Being alone has turned into a habit. Everyone has stopped asking her now how she is.

Wasn't she born to be free? To live in the wilderness like a beast?
Then one morning she walked to her black notebook and sat down to write,
this is where she belonged. that diary, the old black pen. The familiar flourish of alphabets, the fervour,the words, that magic.

It had been a while, oh it was.
But by God, she missed it.

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