That Boy With A White Book

He seemed as real as the sunlight that kissed her cheeks with warmth. He stood in front of her with his signature smile, that reached all the way to his eyes. He stood waiting for her to move. He stood waiting, with a white book in his hands.

Tentative steps were taken till they were facing each other. She looked at him with all the cynicism in her eyes, and he with all the answers that seemed to stay still at his lips. But all that didn’t matter, for now. Right now what stood between them were the gaps that the years of separation had brought between them. Time had treated him well. There he stood, calm and gay. Exactly how she had found him the first time they had met.

Finally, he moved. He held out the white book with a knowing look in his eyes. No words spoken. She opened it. There it was, the comfort of his handwriting in it. Something that she had grown fond of when they were together. That is how she would touch him when he would be away for months. Her happy place. But that was ages ago. Now, it was a familiar tug at her heart which tried hard to respond.

She read them as he watched her face. There were answers. Answers he had denied her all those years. He knew he would have her attention with this white book. As she turned pages,  she saw how he had detailed out all the work he was immersed in all those years they were not together: equations, theorems, theories; all a part of him. An art that was derived out of him and thrown out to the world, in that book, in her hands for her to see.

He stood there, waiting as she read. Watching her run her hands over the pages trying to feel the pressure of the pen indenting out his handwriting. A small smile played on her lips. The years didn’t matter anymore. The answers didn’t matter anymore.

She looked up at him, as she gently closed the book and held it close to her heart.

He stood there, waiting for her to answer his unasked question. A question that had lingered in time. He waited for her to lock her eyes with him.

She finally looked up, watching all the lines on his face, all the ink in his fingernails. She finally met his eyes. And there, he found her answer. He had found his way back home.
—..

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