You're dead and gone. Why is this fact so difficult to digest? You're gone. I won't ever see you smiling back at me again. That night outside my house was the last. The wistful, promising smile. I was happy. For you. I knew you were too. What happened there, kid? Godmother, that's what you called me, once. I wish I could be a better one. I can't turn back time and it hurts. Remember that day in Delhi? I told you I can't ever live with regrets. Not any more, kid. You are gone. It's just irreconcilable. I won't ever get a chance to, well, be there, with you, for you. I loved you, kid, I loved you in that pure simple way that you can only reserve for someone who you call your own. And that you were. I don't know what we were, best friends we called it. But it was there, all that love and care. Us. Now you're gone.
I thought of writing an obituary. But how do I put in to words what you meant to me? Words were your forte, were always your forte, I am only borrowing inspiration. They haunt me, your words, things you said in that heavily accented high pitched voice of yours. They come to me when I least expect them to and then they just stay, hanging in the air. You once told me playing with your words can get you anywhere. You just have to choose and use them right. Yet, we always ran out of them when we wanted to talk, didn't we? It's strange.
Today, sitting by myself and watching the rain, I'm trying to come to terms with what this means, if at all things have any meaning. I'll take my time dealing with the grief. You always knew that about me, didn't you?
You were brilliant and lovely. I would catch hold of random friends and tell them about your genius. It made me so happy.
The love you gave me was, is, so precious. You were one of those who loved unabashedly. I remember one afternoon when, sitting in my room, you sang me a lullaby. You were, undoubtedly, pathetic at singing, but the passion with which the words flowed out...
'...So long I've been loving you,
I will never forget you...'
That is the thing.