"Are you fine?"

He saw her in college on his third day—they were in the same class. She looked so bright, so vibrant, so different from the rest—her eyes: bigger than any he had seen, deep black, soulful, and despite his hatred for kohl, he had to agree that it looked good on her; her hair: shiny, just a little below the shoulders, the way she would flip her hair to one side and reveal her earrings—ah, her earrings—and the way she smiled with a frown when she would tie her hair into a bun; her walk: feminine, flawless, fulfilling; her laughter: exuberant and life-giving—he wondered how everyone didn't leave everything they were doing and got occupied by her movements.

Everyday after for the rest of his college life, he used to wait for her on the way to class, sat at the same spot, pretending to read a book until she came and tapped him on the shoulder, and they would walk to the class together—sometimes he walked behind her. Those thirty or so yards were the only brilliant steps in his yard. They'd just ask each other how they were doing, and each after three week of pretense started giving honest answers—never more than a few words, but honest—those were the only words they exchanged for half a year.

There were days when she didn't come. Those days, he kept sitting there, his eyes on the book in his hands, thinking of reasons why she didn't come, thinking of what she would say to that day's how are you?, proceeding to make imaginary conversations, speaking bits and pieces of it out loud—unaware of the people around, unaware of the time. It was his meditation.

There were days when he didn't come. Her eyes would look for him as soon as that spot of his entered the periphery of her vision, and when, though it was rare, he wasn't there, she'd feel something inside her—a tinge of disappointment that she didn't quite understand—though hugely short-lived, it was enough to change her climate for the day.

It was after eight months, that they started exchanging letters. It was first on his nineteenth birthday that he wrote to her after she asked him how was his day. He wrote her a letter, not missing any single detail—telling her about the surprise his mother gave, about his girlfriend, the places he went, the gifts he received.

The next day, the stars had aligned as he had wanted, and they had boarded the same metro. They had walked to college together, talking a little more than usual. He never used the term "friend" loosely. She was the fourth and last person he called a friend. That was the day he thought that he'd spend the day of apocalypse, if it ever came, with her. He was sure of it, as sure as he was of being alive and being in love. (He wrote a letter to her before he attempted his first suicide—unsuccessful, of course—but it was her he wrote his last words to, or what he thought his last words would be.)

17th September, 2013—it was the last time they had talked. And he had written a poem about it.

"Are you fine?" I asked again,
Because you didn't seem so fine.
Oh, you're good liar.
But I can bet it wasn't just the absence of your eyeliner.

You sit on the bench behind me in class—
Both of us need the window.
I hate it when it's hot.
You love it when it's not.
"Do you need the Sun?" I still asked.
No, you said you'll do fine without it.
So, I closed the windows and it grew beautiful as it grew dark.

"Do you happen to have a pen?" you asked.
I fiddled through my bag
to find the one you gave me two years ago.
You didn't seem to remember, and I didn't tell.
"Check if it still works."
You zig-zagged on the paper and made a lying M that looked as if lying on its grave, trying to get up.

I had a thought that needed the touch a surface, but I had forgotten my diary.
"Can I have a paper?" I asked.
You'll have to tear it yourself, you replied,
handling me your notebook,
in a voice that speaks things that no words never can.
Oh, how come anyone grows up,
cross their teens,
and still be this sweet?

Class over, saw you again outside.
"Are you fine now?" I asked.
You said you were, and this time I believed.
You see, darling, you don't need an eyeliner to look fine.
And I spoke too fast when I asked,
"Where are you going?"
"I'm a free bird," you said,
before you turned and walked away happily.

He hasn't seen her for four years, until a week before yesterday that he heard a voice on the radio and suddenly was sure that it belonged to her, and it became his life's motive to find her. He hasn't found her yet. He never believed in God or a god of any sorts, but still, though quite paradoxically, every night before he goes to bed, he stands in front of the temple affixed to one of the walls in his grandmother's room and prays that he finds her.