Unrequited Love

They were like two roses on my branch. So near, but never together. They lived opposite to each other with apparently, just a street between them and I, I stood right in the middle of the divider of the two way street. Mr. Half Pants lived on the first floor apartment to my right and The Blondie on the second floor to my left.

They used to come down for jogs at 4 a.m on the road sodden with dew, in hopes of evading the eyes of the hundreds of people who would soon wake up. But little did they know, that I awoke with the first hint of the sun and everyday, hundreds of eyes on my branches caught them stealing sideways glances as they jogged parallelly.

Anyone who would dismiss me as delusional, does not know the story each of my roses which Mr. Half Pants picked and dismantled in longing for The Blondie knew. It was painful when he picked my roses but the glimmer of hope that lighted up his face for a moment when the last petal said, “Blondie loves him.” gave me joy. I was the sole witness of all the letters The Blondie wrote, crumpled and threw in the sewer at the edge of the road. And how the sewer dutifully carried them to somewhere, where no one could read them. I was the one who felt the spark, when their gazes met accidently while they were enroute to work as if the telephone wires above had started sizzling.

I often wished for the wind to uproot me and deposit me in Blondie’s balcony so that I could persuade him into believing that people didn't matter. I often requested the bee pollinating my rose to convince Mr. Half Pants to proclaim his love, whenever she visited his daisy but she didn't want to get involved.

Everyday is the same and right now I wonder if it ever will be any different as I look at the rose wilting beside the electric pole. It was the rose The Blondie picked an hour ago and clutched tightly to his chest. But just like the letters, it could never make it to its intended destination.