The Face.

3.32 AM. He woke up with jitters all over his body.He was feeling dry, head feeling heavy.Groping in the darkness,headed his way for the fridge, and opened the door,the sudden flood of soft light from the fridge seemed to blind his eyes.Took down a few gulps of water, and he felt better.Blinded by the light, a halo seemed to appear in front of his eyes.The face. It was right in front of his eyes, and his heart seemed to skip a beat.

Badly in need of sleep, he tossed himself on his bed. He hadn't slept for three nights,the face in his dreams seemed to follow him wherever he went,in the back of his mind.His bare chest covered by a skinny blanket, he saw the wind from the fan combating with the curtains swooshing in the darkness.He wished the night would end soon,praying so to the angels above, he slowly fell asleep.

He suddenly woke up, last night's water was bursting to leave him.He turned over the newspaper with his coffee cup in his right hand.The cup in his hand made him feel uncomfortable.Except for the rising fares in the world and a ongoing militant attack in Srinagar, there wasn't nothing much to read. Was that news,he thought.It happens every other day.Hoping to get a message with a plan to do something that day, he pushed the mobile's buttons.Nothing. His to-do book for the day was empty.

Spraying his park-avenue all over him, grabbed his coat and left home.The man next to him in the bus, suddenly coughed and spat out blood.He was shocked, but the old man grinned widely at him and said, This is the last quarter of my innings, I'm dying son. Disturbed, he got down from the bus.Walked a few feet from the bus, and looked at the ticket in his hand.27 was written on its back. He had forgot the change.what disturbed him was not the blood.The sun on the wide-rimmed glasses of the old man seemed to conjure up The Face, and he was horrified.

To stop his stomach muscles from rambling, he walked into the foodcourt,and took the token.Could you spare some change,27 rs, you Loser!, the man over the counter said to him.Tired of exhaustion from skipping his lunch, he was imagining things.Sipping his drink over the book on the table, he heard the girl on the next table say, Did she leave you?

Yes, she did. The Face.The face was his white-clad girl,killed 27 days ago, and she left him.

I'm exhausted, another fruitless day, he thought.

Back home, he cuddled up on the bed with his White Tiger, the curtains combating with wind from the fan,the stars above him.It all seemed to happen again.Tired, he put his book down. It was 2AM. He was not alone, The Face never seemed to leave him.