Somehow no matter how many stories in the form of books or anecdotes from your friends’ lives or even your own imagination you might have heard or thought about, a story involving people in love does not cease to enthral, excite or just please.
It was probably the umpteenth number of rom-coms that my friends and I had watched in our hostel rooms, gushing over those crazy or sometimes just clichéd proposals, never refraining from oohing and aahing at every cute or just dumb dialogue. They were like the breath of the sweet perfumed air over and over again, admittedly not original but beautiful all the same.
People left and right of me seemed to be in love, or at least what they thought was love. Though it was often unbearable, to say the least, it was also extremely endearing. It was all well and good till the last of my friends got committed and there was just nothing to do except to listen to their heart-warming episodes of real-life love sagas. Yes I’m being slightly sarcastic here.
Finally it was nauseating enough to choose studying over hanging out with them. The whole sensation of realising that something might be positively wrong with me had finally hit. There seemed nothing I could do about it; I didn’t have the slightest clue about how these things worked. I mean how you know who you like, or how at all it could be possible for two people to simultaneously fall in love with each other. It was statistically wrong.
But people seemed to defy all logic anyway. Either everyone was weird or it was just me. And I couldn’t possibly think it was me, I mean that was just impossible.
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