One week since I snooped onto the sixth floor,
One week since I stole a glance at her side.
One week since I admired her from a distance.
One week since I dived deep into her eyes.
The length of a week is decided not by the days it consists of, neither by the hours it clocks nor by the seconds it ticks. This arithmetic is for those who have never burnt in a desire or passion for something, or longed for someone with bated breath. It is for the people who haven’t felt a craving, so strong and so deep, for someone that you forget the world around you, your own reality dissolving into a larger sea of violent emotions, your own shadow vanishing in the light of someone else’s thoughts.
This simple addition of seconds into minutes, and hours into days is for those who haven’t missed someone day & night, wishing for someone else’s presence while your own life breaks down into bits and pieces, drifting in air like those effervescent water bubbles, floating away in all the directions — slowly and gradually — and the moment you try to get hold of any, catch them before they scatter too far, they burst at the first touch and what remains is an empty air of nothingness and void, like they never existed in the first place.
In these times, your life alternates between the two end states of a pendulum, swinging between hope and reality. Every day you hope to start without indulging yourself in her thoughts but every moment you end up weaving her dreams into your reality. Everywhere you go, you hope to be free of her reflections but every shadow that passes by, you expect it to be of her. Each mile you cover, you hope of meeting new people but every corner you turn you end up expecting, running into her. Hope and reality, like the two extreme positions of a pendulum, always in tandem, one after the other, but never to be together, never to become one.
It goes on and on and on. From each second to every hour and throughout the whole week. Neverending and perpetual and infinite.
It’s been a week now since I last saw the girl on the sixth floor. Sometimes, I wonder whether it was a just a beautiful dream, knit in my imagination and fabricated by my thoughts. Every time I board the office lift, my fingers hover over the sixth-floor button on an instinct, subconsciously, tempting me to go there once, on the sixth floor, to verify my beliefs and to validate her existence.
I haven’t done this yet. For once, I am leaving it all to the destiny. To the so-called fate. I am not going to give into the temptation.
And with this belief I woke up today, got ready with this conviction, drove to the office with this determination, reached the office building with this faith, and while I was entering into the lift, half thinking, half seeing ahead, trying to adjust into the almost crowded lift, I saw — in front of my eyes, standing only a few steps away, in the center of the crowd, facing right towards me, dressed in a black dress, lips arched into a half smile — the girl from the sixth floor…
. . .