Letters to Duggu…Part-3

Hello Duggu,

Jeewan mein Anand to Hai Naa… (Are you happy now in life?)

I know you don’t expect to hear from me. And honestly, I wasn’t planning to write.

But it was raining yesterday; the kind of soft rain that smells like old books and missed chances and, for some reason, that felt like a good excuse.

I was folding laundry. That’s how it started. A sock without a pair, the t-shirt that you used to wear in the house, and a silence that’s gotten good at pretending to be background noise. And just like that, I found myself wondering: Do you ever think of me when you’re doing boring things, too?
Like buying a toothpaste, or watering a plant you don’t even like.

You’ll be sad to know that I am still waiting for you in the crowded rooms. I am still searching for your face in strangers, or your voice in the old songs.

And, I must confess something shameful: I still rehearse conversations we never had. Mostly in the shower. Sometimes while tying my shoelaces. Always at 5:15 AM.

There’s this cup in our kitchen with a chipped rim. You always said we should throw it away. I didn’t. It’s not a metaphor. Okay, it is.

Some days, I do sit with the emptiness. I don’t fight it. Not anymore. We have become old roommates.

I don’t even know why I am writing this letter to you. It’s not like you will read this. And even if you do, you’ll probably roll your eyes and say I’m being melodramatic again. But the truth is, I’ve gotten better. Better in the mornings. Better at being alone. Worse at trusting people. Still bad at goodbyes.

The thing is, I’ve changed. I only drink iced Americano now. I don’t order a cappuccino for myself anymore. Because cappuccino was our drink, and I don’t think I can do a cappuccino alone now. I go for workouts before sunrise. I have stopped playing badminton. There is no fun in it because I can’t tell you my winning or losing scores. I have started to make our bed.
I think you might not recognize me. But if I’m honest, some days I don’t either.

There’s a version of me I became after you. He’s quieter. He doesn’t ask for much. Just peace. And maybe someone who stays.

I don’t want to be with you again. This letter isn’t about that. It’s not a trap door or a wish. Okay, this whole line was a lie. Sometimes we write letters not to be heard, but to hear ourselves.

So here I am. Writing to you with a cup that’s not worth saving, and a heart that, despite everything, still beats a little softer when I think of how you used to sing in the shower.

It’s not much. But it’s mine.

Take care,
The Man Who Still Puts Your Name in Passwords He Swears He’ll Change

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This post was previously published on medium.com.