Because She.

Farees.

She sends me a picture of her layered up in layers and layers of garments. It’s -12 degrees in Toronto. A few months ago, she bade farewell to the Karachi city lights where it goes up to 40 degrees and above. Her cloths are bigger than her. She, to me, seems a tiny rat wrapped up in layers of fabric. Cute. Little and a tad more cute.

There are days I wake up and worry about the bad writer I am. The one who got rejected. And feared the rejection. Then there are days I wake up and worry about why Farees doesn’t write anymore.

And then, there are days she reminds me of the good writer I am. The days where she tells me to shut up and listen to her. Only her. Her narcissist, kind soul. The days where what she says is a fact and everything else is a fat ugly lie.

When I remind her of how amazing her narcissist soul is, she doesn’t listen. Boy, she never does. Instead, she reminds me of the bad engineer-to-be she is.

When they tell you internet is not where you go searching for friends, don’t listen to them. Because darling, if you carry your brain with your wounded heart, you will find a smile coming from one corner of the internet. A smile as broken as yours but carries life in it. A smile as precious as the morning sun when it slinks through the windows only to kiss your cheekbones.

Because Farees.

She.

She is not the pebbles but stones against my windows. She’s sober but she’s the drunkenly honest sonnets of love at midnight. She. She. She is the teeny goldfish in a jungle stream who tickles you only to make you laugh. Laugh! Laugh like you never did. She’s the cabana in a large forest with warm duets and hot chocolate. She’s bonfire circled by friends I never had and she, a kitten who never leaves my bed.

And I love her.