If a year back someone had told me that I will be occupying the corner seat in an igloo-structured cafe on the evening of April 2nd and furiously typing away on my laptop, I wouldn't have laughed, but I wouldn't have definitely taken them seriously too. (Beh! Thank you very much, but no thanks.) However, if the same person had told me that I would have been writing the first draft of my own life's story that has just been out of a deadly roller coaster ride, I would have probably rolled over the floor laughing my ass off and if the person had told me that I would be writing about *gulp*  my Ex-boyfriend cum fiance: (the hotshot asshole for a young billionaire) this would have surely triggered a full-time hysteria. For more than half of my life, I was anything, but a storyteller. The most phenomenal achievement in my 'writing career has been a bronze in the Essay Writing Competition' in grade four. Now, it doesn't necessarily mean that I

‘Did you call her?’ Neha asked as soon as she spotted me pacing on the patio. The army girl in our group, Neha Jain—grade A, NCC cadet, was a bit chubby but tall and very amicable. She although was more boyish than an average tomboy should be, there was something lovely about her character that attracted people like beehives.  Neha was sweet ninety-nine percent of the time. She will happily endure each one of our ‘girlishness’ with a sweet smile and will try to go with the flow, but the one percent she will lose her calm, it will be catastrophic.   ‘I tried. Today is the third day, I don’t know what happened. She isn't answering my phone calls. I just don't know...’ My voice trailed off in want of an appropriate word that never clicked.   ‘Fuck! I just wish I could kick the asshole out of her life. I swear if he tries too hard to touch a stran