If love is what injures us, how can we heal?- F is for Fugitive.


‘Yara, you look really gaunt. Are you feeling quite alright?’
I looked up at him.
And smiled.
‘You were my food, Rab. But you were also my hunger. You were my drink, and my thirst. You were my strength, and my weakness. You were my light, my darkness. You were my stupid, and my smart. You were my medicine, Rab. But, you were also my poison. I am not dying of this horrible illness. I am dying of you.’
‘Yar…’he began.
‘Ask me anything, Rab. Like what dress I want to be buried in. Or what I want to be written on my headstone. Or what the orchestra should play. But, don’t. Don’t stand there and ask me if I’m alright, because you know the answer to that question.’