Point.

I’m sleeping on your side of the bed because it smells like you, wearing the t-shirt you wore last Saturday, inhaling in its scent – your scent.

Tea is lonely without you. I try to shoo the feeling away by making my tea in the Capricorn mug you got for me when you were at Archie’s buying a present for a colleague and I asked you to get me something too. Every sip brings back a memory. I sit on that sofa where we usually sit every night and catch up, except there’s no you to catch up with. And I cooked nihari while missing cooking daal chawal for you.

And I can’t ride the taxi for free anymore, no other taxi accepts kisses as fare, nor will I give any to anyone but you.

I feel strange when I speak these days because at home I barely ever produce sound, because why would I? I miss your constant singing, humming, making those annoying sounds. I keep praying for days to go by quickly so that I get you back. Not-so-dear September, please hurry away. I can resonate with the song Wake me up when September ends now.

No FIFA to complain about, no Yes Boss to make faces at, no lame movies to criticize. What world is this?

My point is, I can’t find a point in anything when you’re not here.