#1. Knock
“Please don’t leave me”, were the words uttered by him in between sobs, in an agonized voice and a strange defiant body language. She (almost) yelled back, “Why should I not when you did EXACTLY JUST THAT some few months ago by choosing to walk out of what we had?” How was his request even fair? They had crossed the infamous seven-year itch. And this was year #8. Year eight is what the world doesn’t talk about, my friends. And I believe it has a good reason not to. It’s the year of the wound. Atleast, that’s what I wanted to call it. And Vinay’s expectation of quick and easy forgiveness was rubbing some serious salt to my deep, deep, wounds. It was a strange weekend, with an eerie silence in the house. There were voices in my head. My own, telling me multiple things. His, through the flashback of his bit in the conversations we’d had in the recent few days. And a third unfamiliar voice, whose shoulders were seducing me with the bandage to my wounds. The only decibel that d