A fucking turtle. 

I do not know when exactly I stopped believing in magic.

Perhaps it was when I stared back in the mirror and could not recognize myself. As the bags under my eye grew heavier, and my skin became sallower. As the extra pounds came back creeping up on me, and my body began to shed away its health. When my face became less radiant and my eyes lost their brightness. 

Perhaps it was then, or perhaps it was when we sat in silence, the air surrounding us too heavy to even exchange dialogue. It was when unsaid things began haunting me, and what was said only added to the distance. Perhaps it was when I watched you from across the table and I felt nothing, but a sense of nostalgia. 

Perhaps it was when all my nightmares began involving you. It was when my love horrified my soul into fragments, and I allowed the absences to frighten, fracture my soul with fear. I watched myself writhe, wrapped up in bedsheets, too far from the other half of my soul, to calm myself with your whisper, voice or touch. Our souls became too distant, my dear, to suture the broken pieces together, to remedy the destruction. 

Perhaps it was when it became too hard to talk about heartache, no matter what language our mothers taught us and our hearts communicated in. Perhaps it was when we stopped listening and feeling all together. Or perhaps it was when the girl of your dreams was reduced to a slut, a whore, a fucking turtle.

Perhaps it was when after you finally drained out every last ounce of love from me that I stopped believing in magic.

Tum saath ho, ya na ho kya fark hai?

Bedard thi zindagi bedard hai.