“Is it because of this place and its climate that you lost the texture of your hair?”, she asked.
“Yeah”, she nodded her head. It’s not just the hair, she knew. That clear happy face was now long-drawn and melancholy. It had lines that pronounced misery over age. A receded hairline accentuated her blemished forehead. The dark eyes which once attracted compliments were now behind rimmed glasses that hardly concealed the agony. A dilapidated figure had replaced the younger stout girl. . And yet, it was not just her looks that reflected the impact.
It was never without a shudder that she thought of the happenings of the past four years. From the moment she had made the decision, an unsettling one at that, to the flicker of hope that now kept her going, all that had happened flashed before her like a polaroid film. She accepted that there was no return. What was gone, was gone forever. And may be it was this acceptance that gave her this strange sense of strength to hold on. The conscious knowledge that, whatever had been was a consequence of her decisions, her actions.
Everything was lost. Her appearance. Her composure. Her ideals, her never-compromising beliefs, faith. The equilibrium, the esteem. Her natural affinities for the love of arts. Her passion, her rage, the sense of belonging. The cool air, an unassuming one. Alone, in a world where nobody understood her, she was no more herself. She was lost.