I light a cigarette and check out my phone. There's a text from Chandni.
"It's over," reads the text.
What, the and fuck, in that order, are the three words that come to mind. I don't know what to make of it. Isn't this out of the blue? I ask myself. Or were things happening and building up to this gradually while my attention remained devoted to the trivial? Did I do something wrong? I may not have been good, but I'm sure I haven't been bad. But good and bad are subjective. What if what I deemed "not bad" meant "too bad" to her? Questions. I hate questions.
I look at the cigarette in my hand and it looks like I just lit it. Time seems to have slowed down, as if to stop and laugh at my expense. Err, that might be an exaggeration. I guess it's a travesty to think that time would actually slow down for one person. Of course, I'm not special. It's only people who see other people as something special. And people are only special in someone's eyes. When you remove those eyes from the equation and look at the picture, the "special" does not exist. Time, on the other hand, just flows, without giving a shit about whoever it is it passes by. Does time ever be bothered by its own existence like we humans? Does it loathe its life? Does it care about what it means to anyone else? Does it understand the concept of "over"? Does it know if there's a point where it can stop? Fucking questions!
I take two drags off the cigarette and stub it. It's a bit weird that my brain chooses to focus more on the concept of time than on the text I recieved. Is it the mind's way of alleviating the inevitable hurt or is it too stupid to grasp the idea of prioritising? What do I do now? What now? Questi..oh, chuck it!
"What now?" I text her back. When you have questions but no answers, it may be in your best interests to ask instead of trying to figure it out. There's a response immediately.
"Are you stoned or what? My shift is over. Aren't you supposed to pick me up so we can have dinner and watch a movie or do whatever it is we do every single day?"
Hello, Mr. Overthinking Dumbass!
"On my way," I text back. These joints aren't with the ti...yes...me.