The fan spins towards me, and blows my warm skin with humid air. It is calming, and yet it stirs too many things in my mind. Of things I'd rather keep hidden and buried. How does one live when they know they are going to die anyway?
I miss my friends. I don't know whether they miss me. I never hear from them unless I initiate it first. I didn't even know that she was back from Ireland. And I never even heard a peep from her. I called Aravind. Nice to hear a friendly voice in hostile lands.
Not hearing from him made me realize just how alone I really am. How pathetically lonely I am. I wonder whether he feels the same. Probably not.
How does one lives when they know they are going to die anyway?
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