Wait: Who is she? I don’t know. Seriously. I have her in a few of my classes, I think. I see her here and there and even sat next to her a few times. But, I guess, somehow, someway, some sort of a relationship formed between us. I only know her full name because I saw her on the class roll. I’m not exactly good at this stuff, it’s not what I do. Keeping track of my own life’s a challenge. But yeah, she caught my eye. My fancy.

There was space, night, lack of light, darkness between them. Within that, there lay a million moments of wisdom, of worry, of genius and stupidity. Of chances and risks never taken. He knew then that that moment would pass by, night would turn to day, that he’d go on living and that she’d find her place in life.

I started living through a modern concoction of sorts: Someone darker, taller, skinnier, younger. Rahat Ahmed. He was the medium through which I explored the years that I had lost in my own youth. It did some sort of a rejuvenation trick. For the first time in a while, I felt alive.

I sighed and four minutes of silence ensued. After that, I threw away my trash and grabbed my coat. She did the same. I walked her home as the cold wind battled her scarf. Meanwhile, I kept her warm. She smiled, genuinely (and naively) when we arrived and gave me a sweet kiss before I left.

She shook her head a few times, gave me a kiss on the cheek, paid the bill and hurried out the door. And there I sat, my heart in hand, wondering what it takes to make someone understand.

She glared at me for a second as the train halted at Union Square. “You’re cute. Too bad I have to get off now. Take care!” She gave me a smile. A big one. And then she got up and left.