Shallu Jaglan

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The Aftertaste of a Week

That week, we only had a week, felt like a spell cast carelessly by the universe. We did not plan for it, nor did we deserve it any more than others do, but it arrived, shimmering and intact. Each morning opened like a curtain and revealed us, a little dazed, laughing at nothing, talking about everything. Each night closed with the kind of quiet I had always longed for, not silence, but presence. You never once made me feel invisible, or small, or ornamental. There was no effort in your kindness, no calculation in your attention. You simply were, and I simply floated.

The Sunflower Moments

The room smelled like old sex, thick with the residue of unspoken things, promises hanging in the air like smoke. His fingers slid into mine, a quiet connection, and his head rested on my shoulder. His curls brushed against my skin, soft and wild, making a gentle spark of electricity flow through me, not to my head, but into my chest, into my heart. It wasn’t love, no. But it was something softer, something unnamed and unclaimed, something that didn’t ask for definitions. It was a delicate unison, like two damaged pieces finding each other without the need to heal.

Who Do We Really Meet the First Time?

So why do we do this? Over and over, every passing day? Why do we curate, then crumble, only to curate again for someone new? Perhaps it’s a survival instinct. Meeting someone new is like planting a seed—we present the most fertile soil we have, hoping to foster connection. But as the plant grows, it reveals the imperfections of the soil. Maybe it’s also about safety; we start with what we hope to be and reveal who we are only when we feel secure enough to do so.

I don't have secrets; just scars

I can barely walk. I don't smile like I used to. I struggle every morning to open the eyes through which I once loved seeing the world. I talk to people about things I am not passionate about anymore. I don't write anymore, something I once loved more than anything. I don't feel like facing the world. Breathing seems like a task. I can't look into people's eyes anymore. Every part of my body hurts. I am incapable of loving people where I once was a hopeless romantic. I don't hold hands anymore because I know that at the end of the day, I won't have those hands in mine. My heart aches, and I don't love life anymore. I want to live, but I don't know what I want to live for.

150 Days of Togetherness

The farther you are from me, the more I crave your hands in mine. Your head on my shoulder, your hands caressing my back, and your eyes every time they would light up, you would see me. My love, I ended up falling for you, harder than I wanted to. I never wanted to, but I am, sitting on a bed where you aren't beside me and writing letters without you here to listen to them. I wish we had more time; I wish we could have stayed together for a little longer. I really wish we could do that.

I Wish We Had More Time

From glancing at each other for hours to sitting together at your place, life taught us many things: to love, break, heal, support, cry, smoke, end things, and bid goodbyes. Every time I think about Delhi, I’ll think about you. How can I not? You were special. You are special. Whatever it is in your heart will always guide you to do the right thing. There are things that I won’t say and things you wouldn’t want to hear, but for what it’s worth, we both know what it is.

Home And Other Things

The other night, I was intoxicated, and you were too. I never knew that romantic gestures like holding hands would be a thing someday. It felt like home. It felt safer than it did with other people. I have always been drawn to arrogant people because I have felt this for years, which seems normal nowadays. I never wanted ordinary because ordinary felt boring. But I realized that sometimes ordinary is what’s best for you because you aren’t ready to fight all the storms alone, especially when you aren’t ready.
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