And the bell for fourth period rang.I slid my Maths book under the desk where I had previously slid all of my emotions. All the cheesy letters that that you used to send me making me realise "how stupid!" took shelter there.

I packed my bag and rushed to the staircase. The guard gave me a look, but, different from the one he used to give when he would see us together. It was weird, still. The chilling winter breeze tickled my legs. I had always hated the skirt trend. As a victim of peer pressure, I too had started wearing skirts without stockings. I reached the second floor.

As I walked pass the classes, I saw boys chasing each other, a couple sitting at the last bench, a girl with specs on the first seat reading something ; and my past. Those days flashed back in my mind. That twelve second nostalgia was very difficult to handle. I entered the library. The fragrance of incense stick filled my favourite place. I saw girls fighting over Chetan Bhagat's Half Girlfriend. I quietly lowkey snapped a "Looking for Alaska" from my favourite shelf.

I sat on the extreme corner of the girls' side. While the Librarian was disturbing everybody by asking to fill the formalities, I found that book.

"Sonnets of William Shakespeare" lying in the very same corner. I wonder why students never read it. It was always at the same place in same condition, as if waiting innocently for me to give it a look. I found a note, which was now the typical old yellowish in color, reading -

"Do people even read stuff like this? well, people don't but you do. And you make me read them too. You are annoying.

- YouSurelyKnowWho"

I knew it was you.

You said you hated Literature.

I still remember one of your Facebook captions - "In black ink,my love may still shine bright #willShakypear ".

You were perfect with lies.

Calling me a drunk potato and then pulling my cheeks. Assuring me that you'll manage to complete History project without my help when I was sick and then eventually getting a C grade. Texting me that you've reached home with phone in one hand and the other hand waving at Autos to stop.

You were perfect at lying.

I issued the book, wore my shoes and washed my hands. Knowing that it was my English class and that I'll be punished if I reach late, I intentionally took the long route to come back. I wanted to read as much as I could before reaching the class since I had started that book last week and last few pages were left. Just when I was reading the third last page, I heard you saying " Hey, I'd be waiting for you in the Tennis Lawn" to her. My eyes shifted to you and for a moment I thought you were saying that to me. After all, this was the line I waited madly for you to say. I loved how you sincerely used to wait for me there.

"Hey, ma'am's coming!" Jiya shouted to bring me back to reality. " The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive" my head whispered in itself. My eyes were at you again. You looked at me for a second, your specs reflecting the hollow soul I had become, and then went back to your class.

Ma'am asked me to go to mine. The whole day, I kept wondering whether I should forgive you.

I couldn't decide if leaving the girl you loved the most just because "you saw no future with her" was forgivable.

You were perfect at lying.

The girl you are dating has made you her slave. She is your need, not your desire. And needs keep changing when fulfilled.

To me, you were the best friend. 

You are perfect at lying.

Your friends asked you if you still love me, you denied.

The doodles on the last page of your Physics register told a different story.

Because the page you tore to lay on the dirty bench before sitting, came under my shoes last Wednesday. "Avid reader of Sonnets, My Cynosure" it read.

You left me in this dilemma. Would forgiving you be a smart move or a mistake? You tell.

You always said "In this world, where teens are mad after Snapchat, I still find mail the most decent medium. It's like the pigeon of our times. Old yet classy"

So I am asking you ; for how long are you going to save those mails as drafts?

- the girl who'll never send you this letter

- warranium