#He just wants to be left alone and Yaoshi said no

[shining-gem34]

“you can’t stop the rapture of your arteries, or the shredding of your heart’s chambers.” - from yaoshi :) to yinyue jun

Poetry Sentence Starters || Accepting @grislyintentions

TW: HEAVY Gore, Vomiting, Attempted Suicide

Is there joy in finding salvation? Is there salvation in finding joy?

Since the beginning of his tragedy, Yinyue Jun experienced the agony of his body consumed by the Abundance. The beauty of his Creator [Long] gifts have dulled forcing him to overgo an abnormal molting. A process too painful to the point his horns bled and his hardened scales turn tender and soft. The tightening in his chest, throat itchy enough for him to cough petals covered in crimson.

Once, Yinyue Jun examined the state of his body.

His blood turns cold when he sees the buds rooted inside him. They dig deep into his veins, drinking his ichor for nutrients. He tried to get rid of them only for them to return the next day. When the first sign of their buds break through muscles and tissues, through scales and skins, Yinyue Jun rips them off. Uncaring to the bloody mess he made, for pain is a welcoming price to purge his body of the Abundance taint.

Alas, Yaoshi refuses to leave him alone. The wounds heal in seconds, flawless and free of imperfections. Yet the buds remain on his person, more stubborn to remove than the old ink stains on his desk.

Four seasons passes, the buds bloom into hauntingly beautiful lotus blossoms.

Yinyue Jun claws dig under his skin and tear off the blooming buds off of him. He takes with it a chunk of his flesh. A pool of crimson, bigger than the last time, washes away the comforting blue. It is the only color he sees now.

The welcoming pain has turned numb, unable to decipher the heat of the sun or the smooth surface of jade. His bodily functions, including the magic in his veins, are drained away by the parasites. As a result, he grows lethargic where every step is a strain on his limbs. The block of ice inside him becomes bigger, obstructing the flow of his magic to their proper functions.

Yinyue Jun is numb, cold, and tired.

Yaoshi parasites are vicious, vivacious, and vigorous.

More season passes, Yinyue Jun new resident is in darkness.

Where is he? It doesn't matter anymore.

Whether he's chained underwater or laying under THEIR branches, it doesn't matter anymore. The beauty of his Creator [Long] gift has become twisted under Yaoshi hands.

He coughs more petals covered in blood, the pain in his chest growing every time. Azure scales lost their luster, flaking and falling revealing soft and tender pink flesh. His horns are now stumps after the second forced molting.

In his memories, the mirror is cracked after witnessing the monstrosity he's become. It's broken, he tore off his "crown" once he saw the buds forming.

Another violent cough breaks through his body. He twists his body, claws scratching at his throat as he vomits blood and petals. The pain in his chest unbearable to the point he wants to tear out his heart and end it all.

With the last of his strength, while he's still in control of his own life, Yinyue Jun claws move to his chest. He swallows, throat dry and raw from before determination flashes in his teal eyes.

His claws presses against his flesh before cutting it.

The sickening crack of his sternum breaking echoes in the chamber. He thinks he threw up another mouthful of blood. How strange he cannot feel the pain anymore. His hand digs deeper until his fingers wrap around a beating organ and yanks it out of him.

A gasp escape him, but it sounds more like a gurgle.

Though his eyelids feel heavy, the room is dark, he can make out the shape of his heart in his hand. It glows, not from his magic, but from the lotus flowers blooming. Their roots make home in his heart tissues. The green stems constrict it, reminding Yinyue Jun he is now a prisoner of Yaoshi.

In the form of this "curse" the Plagues Author casted on him.

Another sigh escapes Yinyue Jun.

He feels numb, cold and tired.

Yinyue Jun closes his eyes for the last time. There is no feeling in his limbs. There is no warmth left in his body. There is no life to give anymore to these parasites thriving in this corpse of a body.

Finally, he can rest and release his soul from this cage tainted by Yaoshi.

But alas, Yinyue Jun cannot find peace even in death.

For THEIR gaze is always on him.

A blinding golden-green light forces him to open his eyes to witness THEIR descent. Unable to decipher THEIR expression, there are hands on him; holding the one grasping the weakly beating heart. THEY gently guide the organ back into the void in his chest. A pulse of THEIR gift flows into Yinyue Jun, breathing life into his parasite-infested lungs.

He inhales sharply, eyes going wide in horror at the realization, "No..."

A sweep of THEIR fingers across his chest closes the void, leaving only a beautiful lotus right over his heart. Yinyue Jun shakes his head, denying everything that is happening him to be a nightmare.

"Give me death." Yinyue Jun demands, ignoring the flowers blooming on his now regrown horns. Ignores his tail, now covered in green-tinted blue scales, flickering angrily behind him. "I demand death! This is not what I wanted! I refuse to be under your prisoner, Plagues Author!"

His hands shoot up to wrap around THEIR neck; teal eyes blazing with pure hatred for the abomination before him.

Yinyue Jun doesn't recall THEIR expression, but in the back of his mind he realizes something:

The pain his body endured as it slowly eroded away is gone; like it never existed in the first place.

But there is no joy or salvation in this knowledge.

[thefirelookout]

The Primary Partner

An edited version of this story appears in the Six Seasons Review

So you think you understand labels, don’t you?

In your mid twenties, you are sitting around with this notion in your mouth, chewing on it constantly, and occasionally blowing a pink bubble for people to see. You think you have your relationship status chalked out- neither single, nor taken; neither here nor there. By now, you have probably faced the worst- first major breakup, a financial crisis, an existential one too if you must, the death of a best friend, perhaps that of a parent, a divorce to spice things up; the first major crisis in your life, in general. There’s no time for love in a plethora of things to do, messes to clean up, grades to save, money to make. Especially since you’ve had that one breakup of epic proportions, you’ve lost a bit of something in that whirlwind.

Right now, there are no labels. You’re very PC with your language, politically correct, and you don’t dare claim the ownership of people anymore. More than enough Tumblr posts have taught you to ‘be your own person’, hence nobody is your girlfriend, nobody is your boyfriend and nobody is your cat. If the world itself is this temporary, why shouldn’t relationships be? Oh wait, did you just say the R word?

In this world without labels, you see him standing there, on the other side of the road.

At first glance, he’s just some regular guy who’s staring into space, or probably reading those street signs at a distance. One good look at him in his navy blue parka, the pale sweatshirt underneath, the unremarkable pants and unremarkable shoes; there is no ‘wow’ factor in there, no realization of ‘this is it’ smacks you hard in the face. The sunglasses are an odd little touch, though; round, dark, Steampunk glasses, that too in this weather. It was probably those decisive sunglasses that made you cross the street and meet him.

“Hey there, do we really need shades when it’s so gloomy here?”

“Oh, hey!” A few extra ‘y’s, here and there.

Coffee smells better on his side of the street, the fresh cut flowers and freshly baked bread don’t interfere with the aroma as much. The two of you find yourselves a cozy place to sit, to let the rest of it unfurl.

Notice how those glasses still stayed on, in spite of what you broke the ice with? Interesting, no self-esteem issues to weigh him down, you heave a sigh of relief. You see a bit of hope in there, at least there will be no stupid whining on the phone; this one will not be seeking validation all the time. You hope, you sincerely hope, that this one does not come with baggage.

You even had a little banter with him, which you may or may not remember.

“So, what’s up with your accent?”

“What about it?” you chuckle, somewhat giddy.

He is clearly puzzled, the glasses come off and a pair of comically large eyes is suddenly trying to make sense of your accent. You feel a bit ‘thrown’, you know, because of a question like that. Let’s see what he says to follow up.

“Very strong T’s and D’s, In-Dian, TR-en-Dy. The R’s hang in the air. “Actually” is “arkchelly” like the Chinese. That’s a halwa in my book.”

Oh? The unimpressive guy talks after all, he is beginning to notice your little idiosyncrasies. It’s cute. You found yourself noticing him better- the chiseled jaw, uneven beard, no sideburns. There was a hint of black kohl eyeliner, some smoky drama in those deep set eyes. “A bit of travelling does that to you I guess, like I am now. I’m with the AIESEC here, volunteering for a project.”

“Those are what, six week projects? What then?” “We’ll cross the bridge when we get there, what brings you to Germany though?”

“Oh, sorry for not telling you. I’m afraid I’m stuck here for a year, I’m studying Data Journalism” he mentions the celebrated university, too. You know most of this background information, of course. Raghib, the ‘setter upper’ of this date-thingy, has furnished you with all you need to know about his university, what he did for a living back in Desh and what his height is. Clearly, one of them has lied about the height, they always do.

He seems like good company though, and there’s a little something in there as you’re noticing the little things. His skin is a soft yellow, might as well ask him how he keeps it so clear and glowing. “Oh, I don’t believe in soap. You exfoliate, exfoliate, exfoliate”

The coffee and the bread left a fresh, bitter aftertaste. It was time to go. “Where do you live? Somewhere near campus?” you ask. This, you need to know. You answer a similar question from him.

“Alright, so you probably have a roommate right?”

You half-shrugged, half-nodded, but then you saw him fishing his pockets for something.  

“Accha you do speak German right?” he asked, still rummaging.

“No, not at all. Why do you ask?” notice how his hand has stopped at something. A key, no keychain, nothing special about it. Just the one, standard sized key. He beckons you to come closer to him.

“Here, keep it. If you ever want to see me. Käse”

You pretty much stared at him as he left, the bell tinkled as the door closed behind him. “Did he just…?” well yes he did, but that’s not what was surprising, at least not that alone.

What you didn’t tell him is that you do know German, you have been learning for a few years now. Not only has he left you, a complete stranger, a key to his apartment, you also understood what his last word was.

“Cheese.”

“Weishenme?”

“If I knew the ‘weishenme’ I wouldn’t have asked you in the first place.”

Clearly, your roommate is flabbergasted. Things are pretty liberal where she’s from too, but one does not simply leave their ‘yaoshi’ with someone on their very first date. She keeps asking you whether it is a regional thing or a European thing.

“I don’t understand these Germans! I don’t understand these Bangladeshis! How come he’s so sure that you’re into him? Does he think you’re easy? Urgh! Wo bu zhi dao!”

The girl from the Middle Country paces up and down, trying to make sense of things. For some reason, you find yourself joining the dots. You’re finally getting the hang of the guy.

“Maybe he wants me to make the next move, you know.”

Anybody else might think of it as a very direct, no-nonsense approach. “Don’t you think he has made things easier for you?” they might say. The ball is in your court apparently, he has left his apartment keys with you, you can just drop by whenever you want to. The control is yours, or so they think.

But deep down, only you realize that you’ve swallowed the bait, and the fishing game is on.  He has left you a key, singular, just the one object. There is only one way to do this now, turning the lock with said key. He is waiting, just waiting for you to surface. This confidence is scary and intriguing.

“So, what do you think?” asks Raghib in the follow-up call later that night. “Pochondo hoy?”

You realize that you have only one answer. Just the one. “So far, so good.”

Cheese.

You find a weekend that suits you best, in fact, the very next one. Experience tells you that the longer the radio silence, the faster these things become stale. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ is the reason why your long-distance relationship attempt failed, and you’ve vowed to never put yourself through something like that. That was in the era of commitments, of course, things were a bit too close for comfort, plus you were much younger. Ah well, let bygones be bygones. For now, let’s focus on Mr. Key, shall we?

Nice little neighbourhood, this one. You notice a dessert place on the way, another place is selling pretty stationery at a discount. You feel an overpowering urge to stuff yourself with cake, but we are not stress-eating today. Not today of all days. The notebooks, the highlighters, some cat-ear bookmarks, a sticker set of the entire solar system, a little green chalkboard- you just want to keep looking, nose pressed against the glass display. An old lady smiles at you on the street, so does her dog, tucked lovingly in a pink stroller. It’s hilarious and sickly-sweet, today’s colour-scheme puts Wes Anderson to shame. You mentally tut-tut yourself not to get distracted. There’s a key in your pocket after all. Before you could put your head around it, you find yourself staring at his building. The stairs are a steep climb. There are no welcome mats, just the one name plate on the door.  

“Oh, you’re here!” Yes you are, in the flesh. Why is he surprised? Didn’t he want this, wasn’t he planning this all along?

“Yeah, and I brought you some cheddar. The fancy German cheeses can get tiring.”

“Cheezus, smarter than I thought. Eshe poro, dekhi tomake.”

 Is being metrosexual still a thing, you wonder. What a lovely house, toasty warm, compact and neatly arranged. Just two little rooms, hardly three if you consider the closet too. Whatever furniture he has is white, a touch of green here and there with the cushions and pillows. The light blue wallpaper is so easy on the eye, the ramekins on the shelf are waiting to be filled with crème caramel. He tells you that he loves to cook, a merry pot roast is happening “as we speak” so you better get ready to stuff yourself.

“I bet you really like to clean stuff, and I guess the small apartment helps. Just two rooms and boom, done!”

“Hu. Likey?” “Likey, very much.”

“Wait till you see what’s in there.” Mr. Key is an opener of doors. He takes you to the inner room, which is again, very white. Another little door opens inside, and no that is not the bathroom.

What he reveals is a third little room. Tiny, perhaps smaller than the closet you have back home.

Oh, sorry, grey area, that ‘back home’ memory. Moving on.

The little room has two bean bags laid out on the floor, a low coffee table and at least five bookshelves mounted on the three walls. Not shelves, rather, sections. By language, by subject matter, the books are all well loved and well read.

“I just won’t buy it if you say all of these are yours.” “Uhu, you shouldn’t. My landlady was generous, her eyesight doesn’t allow her to read much. I brought all of these in here. My stuff is on that corner shelf.”

You find yourself staring at the Bangla titles. When was the last time you could devote yourself to one of those? You take a well-loved Golpoguccho, open it, smell it.

“Happy  place?” “Hu. Or sad place.”

“Books change things.”

Something else changes things. A photograph. A framed photograph.

Things would not have escalated as much if only you had precisely six weeks to spare.

The AIESEC people gave you such a warm, emotional farewell; your students, little Alya, little Maen, little Adnan, all of them huddled around you, gave you toasty warm hugs from all around. All of these children know three languages now, they had to learn because the world prefers to have the stronger ones around. The Syrian refugee sob story will be of no use in a fast-paced, merciless world. It has never not been about the survival of the fittest.

Naturally, Papa is very proud of you. You are pretty much his pride and joy at the Independence Day garden-party; your achievements are his achievements, he parades them around for a lawn full of fellow diplomats to see. The aunties love your saree, they ask you if you want to get married anytime soon, their sons are in the army, you really can’t refuse all those tantalizing offers, or so they think.

The visa expires at the end of the year. Whether you renew it or not depends on your fate, or Papa’s benevolence. Otherwise, it’s either Bangladesh or a new country.

Before leaving the volunteers’ housing, your roommate makes an interesting discovery.

“Say, have you done a background check?”

“No, why?”

“You say that you jump into bed with him without any stalking?” Her English is impeccable, but her tenses get jumbled once in a while. Your clever friend conceals it with the present tense, almost eighty percent of the time. It’s only natural, happens to your German too. You make a mental note of asking her how Chinese functions entirely without tenses.

“Nope, too old to jump! I slid in there like a slithering snake.” “Bie kaiwanxiao! It’s no time for jokes, we stalk him on Facebook right now.”

If you say that you never once felt like stalking him, you would be lying to yourself. Of course that idea has occurred to you, of course you wanted to see his deal, what’s up with him, his public thoughts, the kind of music he shares beyond the little blue flat. Things that he shares with others, and not you. You gave it six weeks, a fling is strictly that, a fling, and you are not supposed to trespass.

Besides, why stalk when you get to see the guy this intimately, almost all seven days a week?

“I have something here!”

She scurries over to you and hands you her phone. She has produced, rather fished out, a photo for you. It’s pretty recent, from last month or so. Mr. Key is standing, back to back, with a short haired girl. That’s pretty much all you can make of her from the photo, the hair covers most of her face, she’s wearing a Liverpool jersey and white three-quarter pants to go with it. The place looks a lot like Thailand, either Krabi or Phuket, and they look happy.

They look happy together.

“Probably a friend” you mumble, and get back to packing. You need to move back into Papa’s place. They always have a room ready for you.

You are not like other girls, right? The photo didn’t bother you, right?

Let’s find something that will.

In the meantime, things have started to become quite nice with Mr. Key. He finds it difficult to function without you micro-managing his life, or so he says.

“You reckon I should wear this shirt to the interview? Too black?” “Yeah, and put on some black lipstick while you’re at it.”

“Oh please, my lips are dark enough. I kiss a hellspawn like you on a daily basis.”

You look forward to everyday banters like this. He notices the little things about you in greater detail. He noticed you press your nose against the glass at the stationery shop, he followed your line of sight. He asked about your hobbies, he picked up the necessary information. Then, on your volunteering farewell day, he gave you an expensive set of brush pens. You noticed him beaming at you as you unboxed it, you notice him taking a good look at you before both of you head out in the morning, you catch him staring at you a little too often.

He has shortened your name for his convenience, you’ve started to call him Loki- it’s a fun little association. Things low-key started between the two of you because of a key, and it goes from ‘low-key’ to Loki real quick, considering how ‘extra’ he can be about his skincare routine.  You look forward to seeing his weird yellow face every day, at least once. Even if you don’t, he texts you, calls you, asks if you’re coming over or not. The feeling seems mutual to the naked eye. Even if it isn’t mutual, you don’t really know for sure. One does not risk it by asking questions, especially if you are on that kind of terms. In a world of no-strings, questions are outright taboo, they make things awkward.

On one of those days of blurred lines you decide to get some time to yourself. Things get a little overwhelming at Papa’s with that constantly ringing phone and the influx of important-looking people. At least the little blue apartment could offer what your father could not- pin drop silence, so you pedaled your way over to Loki’s.

The key, the little spark that began everything, has a bit of character now. When you take it out of your pocket, a little Norse god with an oversized head winks at you playfully. Just one of your old action figures modified into a key chain adornment. The lock opens with a subtle click, the latch comes off. You make your way straight into the book closet.

It was sandwiched between Infinite Jest and American Gods. Something perched this high up would normally go unnoticed, unless you have really good eyesight and are over six feet tall. Yet on that fateful day, you had to have one of those books brought down, so you stood on a tiptoe and tugged at a corner.

Thank your lucky stars. The photo frame does not have glass in the front, just clear, sturdy plastic. Sturdy, because all of its contents- the cover, the frame and the photograph, had survived the fall unscathed.

But you know, such a bad omen should have come your way a little more ceremoniously. The front should definitely have been made of glass. The glass should have shattered as a sign of what is to come.

It’s a clearer picture now, clearer than what your roommate had fished out of the internet. You can see her eyes, her smile, her cheeks and her neck.

It’s the same girl, isn’t it?

Considering how you handled such a situation, you deserve a pat on your back.

You broke the terms of a fling, but you did so in the most non-threatening way possible, you did ask him without scaring him away. The ‘who is she’ question could have been avoided, it would probably have kept things as they were, but you are only human. You needed to hear it from his own mouth.

“Interesting, so you’ve seen her already. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Very much so. How are things with her?” “Erm…we have been on-and-off for more than five years now. Basically our entire university life through our first jobs.”

He says all of it very matter-of-factly, adding to your confusion. You also notice that he is quite eager to talk about her, excited even.

“Accha, is she okay with it?”

“Okay with what? Being on-and-off? Can’t say!” “No, I mean, seeing other people.” This, you must know. You still have, what’s it called? Yes, ethics.

“Hu. She’s okay with anything.”

You half expected an apology. A little something, anything, to help you feel better would have been nice.

But why would he apologize? What does he owe you?

By default, you have to be cool with it too. After all, none of you have promised each other commitment or exclusivity. You are immensely proud of yourself today, you maintained such a nonchalant poker face, never lost your calm for a second. Had you been in a situation like this even last year, you would have created a scene for sure.

Not this time though.

No broken plates, no insults, no drama, no storming out of the door with eyeliner streaming down your face.

You commend yourself on how professional, how impenetrable you are. Well done.

What he doesn’t know is that you took a photo of her on your phone. What he doesn’t know is that later that night, just before bedtime, you took the photo out for a better look.

Definitely not a recent photograph, this one. She looks hardly twenty, her hair is shoulder-length, she has hardly any makeup on except some liner and some gloss.

“We are both anarcho-communists, Che and I. Back in the day we were really into rallying for the things that mattered.”

You wonder if they had met at one of those turbulent rallies of Shahbag.

Her features were under your scrutiny. What strikes you is her skintone, her rich, deep tan, her Shahbag-battered face that screams ‘Bengali’. You find out what her name is, you silently slither around in her Facebook profile. The white cotton saree, the black sleeveless blouse, the blue teep, the blue glass bangles- you look at her and see what a stark contrast she is.

Go on, take a look at yourself.  

Here you are, half this and half that. A living diaspora, a contradiction. A ‘this’, but not exactly a this. A ‘that’, but not really.

Your face never screamed ‘Bengali’ like hers does. Just to experience the difference, you pinch both of your cheeks. A rosy, excruciating blush appears on your pale skin. Pale, because you could afford to stay indoors. Pale, because while the activists screamed their lungs out, you guys were in the Netherlands. Solidarity was on TV, on blogs, ‘in spirit’.

You were never home, never home for the important things.

She is a midget compared to you, her form is petite, slender, barely there. Yet she looks at you with those classic brown eyes lined top and bottom with jet black kohl. Her gaze shreds you to pieces.

Che. Short for Shucheta.

It was after hearing the name that you insisted he read Lolita.

“Shu-che-ta” you think out loud, “The tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Three syllables, just like Lolita.”

“Looks like I have a thing for girls with three-syllable names.” Always the keen observer, the connector of dots, the opener of doors.

You gently pick up your three-syllable name, try to make it descend a flight of stairs. All you hear is a discord. Something off-beat, like you.

“Nope, not the same. My name doesn’t seem to have the music.”

“Hu. Music. Perhaps she is music” says a voice from nowhere near you. You hear him drift away from you. Is it in your power to keep him anchored anymore, to yourself?

“I think I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

“That’s nice, when do you plan to do it?”

“Can’t say, really. It would take a great deal of convincing to even get her to discuss marriage.”

His primary partner, for the lack of a better term, has now eased into your lives.

You remember the sight of his face, how it lost colour, when you referred to her as his ‘girlfriend’.

“Uhu. Not my girlfriend. Tor eto iccha hoile tui girlfriend bana.” Make her your girlfriend if it bothers you so much. At least you have something of a label now, you are a friend of his. You two are on ‘tui’ terms with each other.

If she’s okay with it, you should be okay with it too.

Hence, his ‘primary partner’. For the lack of a better term. She really must be something, you feel. She has made him this determined to marry her, or even discuss marriage for that matter.

The journey and the destination. The temporary and the permanent. The fling and the…the constant. The kind of girl you go home to, keep crawling back to in spite of everything- that’s her. What is she made of, this primary partner?

“How do you plan to do it? A registry?” “Hu, obviously. Perhaps a little something for some street urchins once we return home?”

“Do invite me man, I don’t want to miss out on the food!”

“We’ll see about that. Maal ta re aage raji toh korai, then we can have some biriyani.”

Let me convince her first, he says. Maal. Goods, object, thing. Let me convince the thing to marry me first.

When you return to Papa’s house, back to your desk, chair and notebook, you take all of your brush pens out.

Maal.

Soft little strokes of the word, in every colour. The pens have a mind of their own, they glide on, fill page after page, ‘maal’ in the Roman script as well as the Bongo Lipi.

The object of his affection, Shucheta.  

Raghib really didn’t know, he said, he really didn’t. Honest.

“I really had no idea he was seeing someone else on the side! Last I heard he had broken up with that girl you’re talking about, what’s her name? Shuchitra!”

“Correction: he is seeing me on the side Raghib, not her.”

The ‘other woman’ is you in this one. You are the ‘mistress’, the second choice, the temporary arrangement, the makeshift hut. What the first choice couldn’t give, you offered, but you’re still just that. Temporary.

Your other friends complain that you have gone much quieter than ‘before’. The ‘before’ was a merrier time, a time when you would feel like stuffing yourself with cake. The bakery on the way to the little blue apartment, the sight of all that sugary-sweet makes you want to run away from things. You get yourself a sturdy belt from the thrift store, none of the trousers hug your form anymore. Friends who see you after long intervals ask you to ‘eat properly’, whatever that means.

It was Papa who noticed, it was he who asked if you wanted to get some fresh air, go somewhere nice. A week in Cologne together for some father-daughter quality time. He has some work there anyway, some complimentary tickets and a love for Gothic architecture.

“I’ll be a bit busy when you’re away, inb4 late replies to your messages.” Loki tells you over text. He does miss you though, he is expressive like that.

On the weekend of your return, you pedal straight to his house, show up at his door with a camera roll full of touristy pictures. He peppered you with compliments on the ones you sent to him from Cologne. The Loki keychain comes out of your pocket, ready to do its duty. Let’s go hide somewhere till he comes home.

What you don’t hear this time, as you turn the key, is that familiar ‘click’.

You have always been bad at opening doors, you often turn keys in the opposite direction, even when starting the car.

The click is just not there.

The Norse god does not help you open a portal. It just stares back at you, helplessly. Never losing your calm, you rush right up to the landlady’s flat, you ask her questions. Finally, a place where you can really ask questions.

He left, changed the lock before he went, don’t know where.

You find yourself holding on to the banister as you descend down the stairs.

For the first time in these months, for the first time in all these years, a man has made you feel weak in the knees.

The irony is, you were the one who told him what ‘ghosting’ really means. Ghosting is disappearing into thin air, as if you’ve never even existed. You become a ghost in someone’s life, dead to them, when they ghost you.

“I feel like a Phillistine while talking to you kids these days. Ghosting! Pah!”

To rinse him off of you, you reestablish contact with some ghosts on your phone. They are both happy and puzzled to ‘have you back’. You grab a coffee with Luca and  a movie with Finn, you sit through Infinity War with your teeth clenched. Norse mythology is a grey area, just like that closet back home.

Home.

The universities have finally spoken, you’re going to a new country this time, a North American experience awaits you. The family is proud, Papa is beaming at everyone at the Victory Day garden party, with you on display.

Momma asks the both of you to come home.

It’s always amazing to be back with Momma, the three of you together, as a family unit. She and Papa bicker at the airport, laugh hearty laughs, so much in love with each other in spite of the distance.

“Papa, please promise me you’ll take her along this time?” You sneak in a plea to him when she’s not looking.

“She loves her job, what do I even do? She’s going to get bored in two weeks over there, let me tell you!”

“It’s just his excuse of not taking me to places. I am so going with your Papa this time. Let me just retire and we’ll tell him!”

Since Loki left, you have tried to find out where he is. Denying these efforts of locating him would only mean lying to yourself. Raghib was of no use, not that we are surprised at the information. Social media did not give you a satisfactory answer either, the interest dulled and life happened. Moving on was easier than you thought.

Then again, what to move on from when there was no relationship?

What did he owe you, and what did you owe him?

One day though, it suddenly occurs to you.

“Momma, do you know a Shucheta S.? A friend asked after her, said she’s a member.”

Sucheta S. the activist. Just like your mother.

“Oh I remember the girl, went to the Sorbonne and all. Really talented” which is not unlike how he used to speak about her. Really talented, fiercely intelligent. He was both intrigued and terrified of her. Not unlike how he spoke of you, either.

“Hey, didn’t she marry recently? Hang on.” That’s the thing with your mother and you. ‘Didn’t she marry?’ instead of ‘didn’t she get married?’. The woman in the subject position.

Momma brings her phone to you, goes to one of her fellow womens’ organization acquaintance’s profile and produces an array of photos.

A neat little rooftop holud, well photographed and well adorned.

Her hands had henna in them, her saree was a soft yellow, elegant and easy on the eye.

“Any photos of the wedding though?” You really wanted to see them happy, together.

Not a registry wedding, but a minimal, elegant one. The development economist you are kinda-sorta seeing nowadays says that traditions are not all that bad. Traditions stem from our collective experience, they have helped our predecessors survive.

“Do you know the groom, Momma?”

“Don’t think so, he looks very happy. Heard that he’s a photojournalist.”

Except Loki never took photos.

His major was Data Journalism.

“Not to gossip or anything, but she did go through a pretty bad breakup. She found out that her ex was cheating on her with some Indian girl he met in Germany. Well, good riddance!”

The groom? You don’t think you’ve seen him before.