In all senses, by all means

I assume days are passing by and soon it'll be my last day here. With her. The one who calls me her best friend, in its each definition, with as much proud as possible. Sometimes I wonder whether I even understand the reasons behind such proud. She, being the kind of a girl any family would love to have, any stranger would like to meet, doesn't stop letting me know what I mean to her each time we converse. I, being a troublemaker most of the times, like the idea of believing her when she speaks of the place I own in her life and the value she holds for me and more importantly, the idea of believing that I deserve it.

We lived our togetherness as much as we could and we're still in the same phase. Its not hunger to grab something that's been away and is now dished in front of you. It is an accomplishment, whatever it means. Of the wait until now. Of making it through the tough times and making yet another precious memories again. As we make our way to this place, a part of the Arabian sea located in a specific way, in front of the souls living here, enchantment spreads over. All over.

We laugh until our stomachs hurt. And we laugh some more. We talk endlessly about each thing possible and I just be the same terrifically humourous person I know she loves to be with. I, at the same time, seem to bring back this humour for the sake of her laughter for I've seen her cry. One thing leads to another and our talks get back to the school days. When we first went annoyed at and almost hated each other. When we first met. The words we speak, proving the times back then were actually the times we lived in our early teen years. She slowly becomes a listener rather than the one who talks and I, for some strange reasons, make ways for the words I didn't speak until now. Her face revealing the surprise after every sentence I form. I don't mind it. For I know hidden and unexpected things sometimes own a power to make one go speechless, especially when one has surely a different image of another. A formed image throughout the years.

I speak words coming straight from my heart, with all honesty. I reveal, I vent out. She doesn't have queries. She knows she doesn't need to. I speak a little more, realizing the life happened to me a few years back, now has become an open book, opened by the one who witnessed it.

She's not surprised anymore. Why to be so, anyway? Perhaps she knows what I spoke was just another side of what she'd seen and heard back then. Perhaps I now look more familiar to her. More real.
"As transparent as you've been ever since your birth, one should write a story about a mystery like you." Words, still echoing in my ears. Feeling as lively as the moment I heard 'em.