The word resonated on my tongue. Echoing in my heart, reaching out to my mind. And not a single string it had struck.
Not a single tone, it touched.
While there were students who imagined themselves crying, I imagined myself in a stoic mode, indifferent to the whole event. Or maybe it did make me sad but it didn’t matter. Because I will eventually be fine.
To the farewell.
I thought of them as insane, for attaching so much of their hearts to each other. For dressing up just to bid each other their last goodbyes. For hoping to get clicked just one last time. For wanting to spend the most they could, together.
But I guess the problem was with me. It was not they who were insane, but me, who was never sane enough. Me, who felt things to an extent where I didn’t find the way to express them, eventually ending them in ignorance.
I wanted the word, the event, the anticipation of it to touch me. But I guess I am too cold. Or maybe I have become too cold. Or maybe it does make me sad and I don’t want the sadness to float on the surface making a show of itself.
Never too much attached.  Or attached to an extreme where I’d undergo a catharsis.
Each day I pulled myself away; away from what it has been through all these years, reaching out to the start. The way it started.
As strangers, just smiling at the sight of each other, trying to make a meaningful conversation.
I have lost the urge of knowing.
Knowing how they feel about me or who am I to them.
No picture saddens me. No laughter anticipates the cry.
How can I be like this? How can I be so blunt? How? I don’t have an answer. Time might have it.
Farewell. I whisper each day.
At the station.
On the way.
At the entrance.
In the class.
At the station.
I whisper each day.
Au revoir, mon adorable ami.

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