I was looking out the window. The sky was grey and gloomy. It's going to rain, I said. But I heard no reply. How I wish I heard that silvery voice say "Yes!" . The tiny droplets poured through the sill. I didn't move.  I couldn't move. My thoughts were on our red rose. One Brumal morning,  we were walking down the street,  when she spotted this exquisite thing. I leaned down and tried to pluck it but I accidentally grazed my thumb against its cruel thorns. She laughed at my misadventure and said I'm more clumsy than I looked.  I returned this insolent remark with a insult of my own. She laughed again saying that the world was filled with sensitive fools . I gave her the rose. She promised to never throw it away. Everyday since, I would always see this beautiful flower in her room. It never withered nor lost its fragrance.  It was beautiful and will always remain beautiful. We would joke sometimes that the flower was made of plastic. 

We always spent Saturday evenings at her home. Sitting beside the window , we would chat about our lives and occasionally gossip about the servile multitude next door. I loved listening to her voice. I remarked once that she should be on the radio. She would laugh and time seemed to cease. I enjoyed her company as much as one could enjoy the evergreen pastures and meadows of heaven. People mocked her unbridled optimism on things, saying she believed too much in everything.  But I never listened to such cynics. She was too sweet for this world, but I needed someone who was uncorrupted by malice. We were in love but not the kind that every movie or TV show portrays. I never saw her in that light and neither did she. 

On Mondays, she went to the park. A peculiar hobby of hers was to collect posters of missing animals. I assumed she did this out of commiseration. I never asked her the reason for I knew too many collectors to be perfectly insane. After her walk, she would return home and make me a cup of tea. We would gaze at our delicate flower and whisper gently not wanting to break the silence. We were happy. Happy to listen to the music of silence. 

Months rolled by, and we spent it in idyllic havens -The Park, the theatre and the cozy comfort of our living room. There was nothing in the world that could shatter our home. But something changed on the 22nd of June. I went to her place as usual. We were chatting about someone when I descried the rose. The elegant petals that once adorned its stem were now haunted with a pallor that sickened me. I couldn't comprehend my emotions  that day. The eerie stillness of the following days increased the consternation in my mind. But she was alright or perhaps she seemed alright to my eyes. We continued our pointless talks on the banal and useless. I once told her that we could talk about anything. Anything that bothered us. Anything that we needed to get off our chests. She nodded  flippantly and replied that I was taking life too seriously. 

Was I taking life too seriously? I know now. The weeks turned to months and the flower turned paler and paler till I could discern nothing but that ubiquitous mien of death. I sit by the window sill  now and wonder if only I had known! But its too late to speculate. I sit and watch the water droplets pour and reminisce the times we spent together.  The times we spent with our beautiful flower. She's gone, gone forever. The rose lays on the table, it's petals withered and grey, perhaps it's time for me to throw it away. I gaze at the rivulets and fall asleep.