Story : •Reminiscence•

I have written another story!!

I know it is a bit cliched, I was going to delete it, but I had to complete and publish it because of a Nutella threat. ^_^

Here it goes :

 • Reminiscence •

I open the book slowly, as if it were glass.

It was like I could see myself from a corner of the roof. I could almost see my eyes twinkling.

I scan the overused tape, the words, every one of them dripping with beauty and adventure. I see the photographs, each triggering a feeling of nostalgia.

The whole book smelled of memories and chocolate.

The words seemed to dance in the music of joy, in the spotlight of friendship, in the ink of bonds.

It was a best friend scrapbook.

We made it in the year we finished school. The year of adventure, as we called it. We even made up a friendship name, Valencia : Alicia and Valentine.

But we weren’t going to the same college.

I was to go to Cambridge, she was to go to Oxford. We had to, we had been planning for it our entire lives. Our marks proved it. We even filled the form in junior year. Gave the interview in senior. Alicia had to fill the form twice, but nevertheless the acceptance letters came soaring in like eagles. We took them everywhere we went.

You could have called us nerds, we wouldn’t have minded. We’d been called worse.

It was always ‘we’. Never me, never you. We.

Our friendship was almost too good to be true. But it was.

The most adventurous, rebellious thing we’d ever done? Skip a day of school intentionally. In senior year. It was pathetic. And we knew it.

So we decided to take a gap year. Our parents were okay with it. They knew we’d manage, they knew we were responsible. We had money, tons of it. Our parents paid for college. And we had the money we’d been saving up for college since Day 1 of elementary school.

The year was supposed to be adventure. To be a life changing experience.

And it proved to be.

We went to Paris, we went to the Vatican City, we went everywhere we wanted to. We clicked photos and sat down almost every night, in our girl pajamas, with cocoa and marker pens, recording the events. The book was beautiful. We were perfect. Our lives were perfect.

Or at-least, it thought it was.

Most of the year went by beautifully. We almost completed our tour.

And then, when we were in Spain, the-day-of-the-seventy-missed-calls happened. It was Al’s parents. They thought Alicia had lied to them. They wanted her back home. There was a fight. Alicia broke down. I had to talk to them and convince them to let us end the tour. They accepted.

Al was furious. She didn’t talk to me for a whole day. Every time our eyes met, I could see jealousy, hatred, fury, and every negative emotion in them. It was disastrous. We never talked. Whenever I tried to talk to her, she broke down into a puddle of tears. The tour came to an end.

On the last day, when we were packing for our flight back home, she came up to me.

“Hey Alicia, ” I said.
“Oh please, stop acting like Ms. Goody two shoes. ” she snapped.
I was taken aback. “Wh-what?”
“Why do you always have to be the better one?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Leesh,” I mutter.
“Don’t. Just don’t. We both know what I’m talking about. ”
” What has gotten into you?What’s your problem? ”
“You are my bloody problem. You’re the one my parents trust. You’re the reason I could give my calculus test again. You’re always the better one, the sweeter one, the richer one, the more responsible, the more beautiful, the more everything.
The day I went to my home to ask my parents for this tour, they declined. And then you come in, being all bouncy and perfect, hug me because ‘your’ parents gave you the permission, and what do my parents do? They say ” oh, valentine, you’re going too? I guess Alicia can come with you.” Why did they agree? Because of you. Why did they let me complete the tour? Because you asked them to. You. You. You. The whole world revolves around you. I had to give the form twice. I had to wait for a week for the interview. But you, you’re always the luckier one. Most of the times you’re my identity. “Oh, Alicia Patrick? You’re the girl with valentine, aren’t you?” God, I’m sick of you, girl, and I hate-”
“Stop! Don’t you dare say that to me. It’s not my fault nobody trusts you. You get the trust you deserve, Alicia, and we both know that. ”
She slapped me.

I stomped out of the room.

It took me half an hour to quit sobbing and return to the hotel room. When I reached there, my heart came crashing to the ground.

There, on the floor was a torn scrapbook. Alicia was sitting on a chair, with a half burnt envelope in her hand.

My acceptance letter to Cambridge.

I was shattered. I fell to the ground, sobbing, weeping, crying, heartless, and broken.

I shudder thinking about it even this day.

Of course, a fight followed. When she finally came back to her senses, when she actually realised what she had done, she apologised.

Because an apology would magically reform my letter.

I never talked to her after that. Alicia’s parents paid for my Cambridge’s readmission. Another tremendous fight followed. Our families shifted to different places : mine went to Winchester, hers to Ludlow. Each of us went to our respective colleges. She did say sorry millions of times, in letters, in emails, in voicemail, but I wasn’t someone to forgive her.

We weren’t ‘we’ anymore.

Five years later, yesterday, she moved to Winchester. A knock on my door, a scrapbook on my staircase and a letter on the front page.

And so I sit today, opening the same scrapbook that I saw lying on the floor 5 years ago, torn and battered. She sure had done a lot of work.

It is true that time heals wounds, but I’m not sure whether the marks on my heart are wounds or scars.

I was sure I could never forgive her. But reading the letter today, seeing the photographs, the words we’d written so long ago, I think I’d be wrong if I don’t.

She had made up for everything, but the words she said that day hurt for a long, long time.

Sighing, I turn to the last page. Taking out a sticky note, I write the following words :

Meet me at the roller coaster. And be sure to bring your camera.
Love, Val.

-**-

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