a letter, a polaroid, and going home

i wanted it to rain that day. but it didn’t.
it was quite hot, a typical autumn day in our city.
i was the first one to reach. it always annoy me to wait for someone in a public place. it makes me feel small, and unwanted. but i waited for you.

you came in a rush. and with you, the surrounding was rushing too. people moving too quickly and in a blur (in my eyes).

my heart though, it moved too slow. i could feel my senses getting fogged. my lungs filled with something else but air.

and you sat in front me. apologizing for being late. but all i could think at that moment is how it feels like a deja vu. as if i’ve been here before. i’ve lived this before.
as if it was a shot from a movie and it was being taken again and again to get just the perfect one. (and i could sense this was the final one)

it was the first time i was seeing you.
i came from home prepared to get awkward. for the words to run out.
we’d be seating there in discomforted silence, trying to fish out something to chat about.
the people around us changed.
the playlist ran out of songs.
coffees were made and drank
the moon came out.
and we both felt like we just sat down.

it was a rainless evening of autumn.
we were two strangers in a lost city.
we have never seen each other before.
however, as soon as my eye met yours –
i saw a home i could go in and live.
and i felt a familiarity like –
“oh it’s you. it was always going to be you”.

A letter, a polaroid, and going home
Photo taken by Shehrin Tabassum Odri.

Follow The Interlude for more.


  • Odri

    Odri, aka Audrey, Managing Editor at The Interlude, is a full-time marketing specialist who is now pursuing her masters in her dream country. Unlike many, she openly announces her love for studying and being an emotional mess. She is an ambivert who has a diverse taste in books, movies and music. She takes no sugar on her tea or coffee, and she is forever team Kaz.

    View all posts

You may also like...

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *