Of being alive.

It is the second night. Which will lead on the third morning. Of agony, frantic prayers, tears, tension and above all, fear. Fear that the third morning will never lead to a third night. I tremble at the thought.

It is annoying being cryptic, but the person in question desires the secrecy. I can't name him. He hasn't even told his mum what is going on. Or his best friend. Or his love.

That Saturday morning, as I sat quietly relishing the glory of a joyous Mamata Banerjee, the phone rang...him wheezing on the other side of the line; all an age ago. Time then has past in one whirlwind of tormented emotions, fingers painfully crossed and praying as hard as you could possibly be. And above all, fear. Overwhelming, dark, despondent, macabre fear that threatens to engulf all.

As I sit in the comfort of my home, its half past midnight and the world sleeps...perhaps I will too, in a few hours. And will wake up to the all-paralysing fear, the agonizing wait for a call, his voice.
"Its no use lying to you...I'm bleeding and the doctors are not hopeful this time...".I never knew I could pray this hard or get this afraid. Or this anxious. Everything seems petty now. My conversation with friends is either cosmetic or distant. My concerns are dwarfed by my fears.Death takes you away and never returns... its irreversible.
The first night, he made me promise to tell someone he loved her. To look after her. I hated her. I hate him for telling me to do this if, as he put it, he isn't around. He could barely speak. He told me to not visit him. He couldn't bear it.
I never realized love was this strong a bond. I bet he didn't either. I know nothing will happen to him... He fights as I type. He promised me. He will come back to me.
He can't die. He won't. He is just sick, that is all.