It’s strange how we feel different things while we do the same stuff every single day. No matter how similar each day might seem, we never actually feel the way we felt on a previous date. It’s raining today, but it’s so different from when it rained 2 days ago. The gasoline rainbows on the puddles in the street is different, the fight with you this time is for a different cause, I have a different reason to bunk my classes on Monday again, the way the sun glistens on the nameless tree trunk in front of my window is different yet again. It is always different in some way, every day.

Is it? Really so? Between you and me? Different again?

Do you know how I sit beside my window, and imagine you doing the same, light years away from where I stay? Do you remember how I stare each time I bite my lips when I think of words to rephrase wrongly put expressions? Did you ever see how I look when I run my fingers through my hair? Do you know that my eyes can mouth syllables from alien tongues, when you turn away?

Gosh. I’m fake. As fake as the times when we sat plucking marigold petals from their stalks years from today

Every time it rains, someone gets stuck in the neon lights from a few summers before. The time when cappuccino had a different spell to it, and clouds bore a different shade of unbruised age; the time, when we didn’t have windows and light-years between us that rained in this abandoned way.