SIXTY-SEVEN | POETRY

I sat in the window seat, stunned, for a while after Samyak had stormed out. His behaviour was unlike any I’d experienced from him, and I was not angry nor upset; no, I was concerned.

I felt that he was keeping something from me, and I thought that it must be related to the scar on his thigh. I found myself daydreaming, imagining any and all of the scenarios that could have possibly led to this.

It must have been some sort of fight, I thought, for him to bear such a scar. Or perhaps an accident; it could have been a glass bottle falling from a shelf. But then why would he have such a fear of me getting hurt, or of letting people down? Why did he feel so responsible for the safety of others?

I sighed. Picturing scenarios in my head may feel productive, like I was getting somewhere, but in reality it was hopeless. The only place I’d find the answers I sought was Samyak, but for now at least, he needed space.

He’d left in such a hurry that he’d abandoned his books and notepad at my side,