I stare down at my hands and wonder.

What would you think of me now? What would you do? Questions flood my mind, unbidden, uninvted, yet rampage they do. Would you still recognise me? What would you say?

Most of all.. Do I want to know?

I spare a casual glance off to the scatterred possessions that litter my room, my eyes lingering over the lamp that had seemingly spoken to me long ago. Had you not come to me that night, bearing the gift of unspoken thoughts and the bitter truth of my broken soul? Had you not consoled me with the soft touch of incandescent innocence?

My mind drifts, cycling through the kaleidescope of recollections that it stores. I pause over a mental picture of you, its clarity heart-breaking. Its value, priceless.

Metal-rimmed glasses. Long hair, tied up. Almost silken in texture and appearance. Your prominent nose. High cheekbones. Dark skin. The gleaming sparkle of your beautifully emotive eyes. The curved jaw and natural smile of your smooth lips. Slim waisted. The body of a girl who's still got a bit of growing up to do. The pressed white uniform. The ankle length light blue skirt.

You're sitting on a chair, a desk in front of you. Elbow on the table, feet propped up on the table support beneath. Head supported by one hand. A slight tilt of the head. Someone, several someones, are talking. You tune in, watch, observe. Turning around in your chair, you face them, listening intently as a river of conversation reaches its climax.

I shudder in pained delight as I relive the simple joy of your contagious grin. Suddenly, a shift.

You slump back into your chair, head resting on arms as you envelope the desk surface with your form. Your eyes betray a hint of sadness, your body language suddenly giving off a vibe of subtle, barely perceivable depression.

I look at you in helpless desperation. You do not look back. I want now, to comfort you. To come up to you and tell you that I'm here if you need me. So badly. To remind you that I have always been there for you, whether you've noticed or not.

But I cannot. I merely look at you from distance, too paralysed by my own insecurities. Too overwhelmed by my own shyness and fears. Unable to act. Unable to do what would be the right thing. To be honest with you.

It is too late, in any case. For two days later, you are gone.

I open my eyes. The room is brightly lit, the computer humming its own happy mechanical tune, the soft patter of rain on the rooftops a subdued addition to the background noise. I stare down at my hands again, trying to dim the agony of such a clear memory. Trying to make peace with the howling distortion of my sanity.

I think of your voice, coming to me from that lamp, a source of both comfort and sadness. Of terror, yet consolation. The questions flood me still, yet they will never have an answer. I will never know what you think of me now. Of the person I have become. Of the suffering I have endured.

I know now, what your death did to me. I know now, what I have learnt.

It taught me the lesson of pain.

Writer's Note : Do read the entry entitled Haunted for further understanding.