When I saw him, I was the protagonist from the Emily Brontë novel, breathtaken by ‘his looks, and all his actions and him entirely and all together’. As I stared at him, unable to blink, or breathe, or let my heart beat, it was clear to me, that the center of the world was not a place, but a person.

The concept of time faded from my memory. Time for me, like moist sand in an hourglass, had frozen.

However, for everyone and everything else, the cursed thing continued moving.

I had been granted twenty four hours to live all the moments I had lost to eleven thousand kilometers of distance. Twenty four hours to laugh, giggle, blush. Twenty four hours to create memories to help me survive the uncertain future that lay in store for us.

Just those twenty four hours.


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