Author: Himadri Krishna
The final grains of sand trickle down the hourglass and the clock strikes 12 as the entire world erupts into an era of silence.
2020. The year of the pandemic. The year of self-discovery. The year when natural selection decided to wreck everyone's life apart. The year when they fell in love. Romanticizing everything is something that was obsessive to me by nature. It was only natural that I romanticized them. Sanitizers and rainy weather with hot turmeric lattés with a sprinkle of love and spice. 3:26 AM's and late-night adventures with online monopoly. Virtual zoom calls and struggling to find the right filter three minutes before they called. Masks and missed parties and an inherent fear of missing out; choked back tears and mid-day pizza deliveries. 31st October skate rides and sneaking out at the chime of midnight to meet someone you didn't even like. Hushed conversations and some unwanted cackles at the most serious of times. I still remember; he had glitter in his hair from decorating the Christmas tree all night; it looked like the stars themselves were tangled in his hair and I longed to run my fingers through them. I had the same glitter stuck under my eyelashes. I looked at him and wondered how he expressed everything so well. He looked at me and loved the way my garbled poetry ran off my tongue. "2020", they whisper. 2020, the year of their love.