She was unlike anyone I knew. She was kind and funny, like clowns at a children’s hospital. There was something about her words that made me want to know her. There was wit and wisdom, and a brusque laughter about her. It made me want to hear all about her first kiss and the day she learnt to ride a bicycle. I wanted to know how she coped with the fame, how she shrugged off the hate. I wanted to hear silly college stories, about her first bunk and sneak out. I wanted to see her as she saw herself, in the cold Delhi winters. I wanted to listen to her talk about how distance from her loved one had changed her. I wanted to hear how she described whiskey burning down her throat, to hear how she finally stopped smoking. I waited for her return to our city. I waited to finally meet someone I barely knew. I wanted to watch her sip her tea like the leaching of warmth in a frozen man’s fingertips. To see her talk, to listen to her mind work. She was unapologetic and honest. She made me want to sit with her and enjoy silence. I could walk with her while she spoke of her thoughts, thoughts that I had never even imagined of before. There was also some underlying secret, a secret I wanted her to want to tell me. I wanted to travel with her, to see how she found beauty in the simplest of walls and shrugged at the gaudiest of buildings. There was an aura about her smile that shone through the veil of mystery, something in the way she smirked that brought a tilt to the very Earth I stood on. I wanted to know her, and I wanted her to want to know me. There had to be something about a girl people loved with an immense sense of detachment. There had to be a flame that sparked a trend of young minds. There had to be a story to everything she typed.
I wanted to read her story, I wanted her to read it out to me.