He was a traveller. An explorer, that’s what he called himself. “I don’t like to sit surrounded by four walls. I want to explore! Find out what’s out there waiting for me and only me to see! Isn’t that exciting?” He would ask, his eyes sparkling with wanderlust. And I would fake a smile and say an excited “Yes!” only for his sake.We’re complete opposites when it comes to that. Don’t get me wrong. I want the best for him. And I don’t have anything against the people who love to travel. But it’s just… not me, you know? I prefer the warmth of my blanket with a good book to climbing a snow-covered mountain any day. I’d rather explore fictional characters than go out and talk to people I don’t even know. Rather than eating at a shack in a far off place, I’d like to cook in my kitchen with the help of book written by a great chef.
I sometimes wonder, does he find me in the places he travels to? Just like the way I find his traits in between the lines the read. When he meets new people, do they remind him of me? Just like I find him in every character I read. Does he tell the hippie girl that her laugh is like me? Does he tell the chai wala that the tea I make is better than his? Do the beautiful places remind him of me in any way? Does he think ‘I’d bring her here some day?’ I wonder if he misses me when the roads get too lonely. Or too crowded.
I’m scared. I’m scared that he might find a place more beautiful than my arms. I’m scared that he might stay there. Forever. I’m scared that he’ll fall in love with a girl he’ll meet on the road because she’ll remind him of me. I’m scared that I might lose him to these places, those people!