Those Purple Pillows

A Riyadh Starbucks mug that sat nicely on my study table was slowly expelling steam from the tea. I always prefer English breakfast tea in the morning, and a cup of chamomile tea before I hit the bed. Tonight was a little different. I found no interest at all at Chamomile. It was an urge for a cup of plain tea, something I couldn't fathom until I had the first sip.

The sip that brought back all of the tiny details that deliriously drove you to a concoction of homesickness, sad, happy, tipsy - all in one spin. Then I started dug back all the pictures back home, the ones that made me feel closer to the people I love, and I found this picture. This picture might sum up the very best memory I had in Terengganu. I remember that super torrential floor fan with its razor sharp blades, and that pillows that always put me in the best sleep, and that window that drew my sight straight to the mango trees and of course that wooden planks that separated between inside and outside that always allowed me to listen to best bird chirps ever.

And in this room, Karl and I sat watching each others eyes. Not talking (because we were running out of topics), just listening to his breath and watching his fingers running across the marbles lines. I was simmered in uncertainty.

There were a tad too many times when I pinched my arm just to make sure that I wasn't living in a dream. Because having Karl for a little while was so surreal, because having a feeling that you were wanted was perhaps the best feeling a person could have.

Karl did that. Karl does that. Karl knows how to make me feel happy. He might not feel the same. But I care less. At least when I look at this picture, I know that Karl and I shared some amazing moment together.

Good night.



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