I think something broke inside me the day he touched my face. I felt disrespected and cheap. Not because his fingers felt foreign nor cold when it ran slowly over my cheek and hovered around beneath the wild strands of hair. It was the kind of touch which is inconsistent and restrained; the kind which kills you from inside, steadily, silently. No matter, it was going to disappear the next day. As rightly assumed, it did so.

It was a mistake not because I was afraid of the wild opinions. It was a mistake because it tricked my brain and it made me feel move closer to my heart, letting my emotions rule me, letting my feminine urge to save overwhelm me.

I knew, nothing good would come, now that they have stripped my flowers from its garden. The evil hands uprooted each and every takhellei it could get its hands on. It’s been lying barren and dry for the past three weeks. With each step and each glance I took on the empty patch, a piece of my heart dies inside.