Dried leaves drifted through the window, landing on the dust-covered tiles. The hands of the clock stood frozen in place. Unwritten sheets rustled in the air, the woody scent of his perfume lingering around. The rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the keyboard echoed through the place. I pictured him sitting back, head thrown against the chair, the staccato tapping of his pen against the table disrupting the stillness. Empty coffee-stained mugs and the creases on his forehead bore witness to the ideas that had failed to come to fruition. Occasional giggles from his kids wafted through the door, lightening the grim mood. I never met them, but I once caught a glimpse of his wife. No one was allowed here. It was his space.
A gust of wind blew in, breaking my reverie. Cobwebs thrived on the walls adorned with his awards. Everything was just as he had left it. Ajay Varma, the best-selling author, had surrendered to despair.
Every morning, he sat by the window jotting down ideas. On good days, he would write without pausing to breathe. On others, he would stare at his laptop without blinking. He read his written words aloud, pausing in between as though seeking my approval. I was his beta listener. While I never could share my views, I admired his writing prowess. His pen created magic. We shared a unique bond, one that was unfathomable to others.
All was well—until that morning, six months ago. He had entered, sweating and gasping for breath.
“My last book wasn’t a mistake. It was my dream project!” he yelled, smashing his phone against the wall.
“I’m a loser. Ajay Varma, the celebrity writer, is a failure,” he sank into the chair, burying his face in his palms.
Tears streamed down his face, dripping over his shirt. The sky soaked his sombre mood, turning a tad grey. Someone knocked on the door, but he remained still. Eventually, he stopped writing. I waited for him to read his stories to me. His visits decreased, and dust began to accumulate everywhere.
Time went by. There was a chill in the air. One night, he entered, muttering incoherently. The man had changed. His unruly hair, stubble on his chin, and the dark bags under his eyes gave him a rugged appearance. He staggered, fell to the floor, his skin turned pale, and he never woke up again, as I watched helplessly.
There were days I looked at the door, hoping he would return. Why did he give up on himself? He had a family. He had me. Why did the master of words fail to communicate his worries?
“Unburden your soul and breathe again,” he had written.
He knew better, but he chose the other path – the cowardly one.
The questions gnawed at me, as I, the room, Ajay Varma’s once sanctuary, that had once witnessed his grandeur, stood forgotten and abandoned, my walls devoured by mould, awaiting the mercy of disintegration.
