He received an email from a former Harvard student and his heart nearly stopped. In a state of utter shock and disbelief, he closed the email, then reopened it, unable to grasp the words. He canceled his Biology class and without any formal announcement, left his office.
Hours later, he found himself in the airport, buying a ticket to New York. It was early December and the snow had already accumulated in Manhattan, reaching several inches high. Disoriented, he held the ticket firmly in his numb hand, wondering what it meant. How long had it been since they had last spoken? Four years ago, he muttered. It had been four years since they had last spoken.
With the snow falling and the crows flying over the tombstones, the cemetery was a surreal picture. The girl’s family was gathered in one corner, heads down, the mother looking into space with not a single tear on her face. At another corner, her friends were standing, some crying, others quietly mourning.
He stood by a tree, watching this picture, unsure of his position. Before he could make up his mind, his former student approached him, her eyes swollen and red.
“She was in love with you,” she said and walked away.

I didn’t know if I was in love or if it was the idea of love that I was in love with. But I knew that I had certain feelings, feelings that put me on the verge of tears, feelings that I knew had to be erased. I was thinking too much, every day, every minute that I got a chance. And it wouldn’t make sense. This idea, this convoluted concept made no sense to me. The more I thought of the idea of being loved, the idea of being part of his life, of being held, the more I became delusional. This fantasy became my every night’s dream, leading me to beautiful places, to an escape of reality and everything that was ever sensible. In daylight I was a lost puppy, a fool, an optimist looking for any kind of sign, for even the slightest possibility. By night I was a dreamer again, living my fantasy in beautiful, inescapable dreams.
And that was it. I never figured out if it was the idea or if it was the real thing. For me, that fantasy stayed in my dreams and I was forced to abandon it. I was hurting inside, but I had no choice. I was a writer, nothing more. I could weave stories in any way, with any ending, with any beginning, but I simply could not bring the story to life.

Wearing her pointy red heels and a brown dress that emphasizes her curves, she comes out of the apartment, locking the door behind her. She slips the keys into her matching purse, checking the door once more to be sure it’s locked. Right then her neighbor Mrs. Zen steps out of her apartment, tightly holding on to her cane. “You must be going to a party; you look very nice,” Mrs. Zen says enthusiastically, her eyes on the red heels. The girl simply smiles back, asking Mrs. Zen how she is. They talk a little bit about the cold and the harsh winter that everyone is worried about. And then Eve goes off, wishing Mrs. Zen a good night.
She reaches a small, cream-colored building and walks up to the first floor, her feet already in pain. Gloria opens the door, welcomes her inside and they begin the therapy session. “My neighbor thought I’m going to a party,” she says and they both laugh.

Nelly and Eve walk to the parking lot, away from a dead campus, away from the boys who were playing kick ball in the grass. Temperatures have dropped on this unexpectedly cold December evening and the girls have forgotten to wear their fur coats. The wind pushes them back every few seconds, forcing them to retreat to the brutality of winter. The girls stop to catch their breaths, their faces numb from the wind. “I smell burnt wood; it’s the smell of winter,” Nelly suddenly remarks as if she is speaking to herself. Eve says nothing and continues walking, her body too cold and numb. As Eve gets closer to the red Chevy, she does not hear Nelly’s distant voice. Inside the car, Nelly looks at her friend and says, “marshmallows and hot coca by the fire, that’s what I want right now,” and then they drive away.

Inside the La Madeleine, a cozy French café, the Franks order their coffees and pastries and search for the perfect table. After they take off their coats and settle themselves down, Mrs. Frank reminds her daughters that Grandma M’s arrival is not too far away. The girls both smile with delight; they have missed Grandma M’s stories, her talks, her habit for always carrying food in her big purse. The Franks are awfully talkative tonight; even the quiet Mr. Frank shares his thoughts with his wife and daughters as they discuss a road trip to NYC and Boston and Chicago. They want to show Grandma M the city, introduce her to American delights and have her listen to Christmas carols. It is a pleasant, sweet night for them, one they have not had in a while. Once the coffees are finished, the empty mugs stained, and the waiter is tipped, the Franks step out into the cold, thinking of Grandma M.

Yes. He was in love with her words, with the way she carried her sentences, the way she ended them. It was a different kind of love, sort of indefinable; yet at the same time, they both understood it. They both knew what kind of love it was. And they both kept it a secret.
She settled herself in Manhattan, sipping her morning coffee in subways and taxis, writing stories in crowded, packed cafes on 5th Avenue. She kept in touch with him, asking him how he was and what he was up to. And then one day he got married and she finally let him go. New York was hers now, just like he always said.

Scrambled; I like my eggs scrambled, she reiterates herself, carefully watching her mother head upstairs to the kitchen. She is irritated, indignant that her breakfast has been delayed, again. At 3 p.m. she is meeting him for lunch; they have much to discuss about their engagement plans. Today is an important day and everything needs to go right. By now I should already be doing my laundry, she mutters to herself, watching the clock that reads 11. Mrs. Hathaway returns downstairs from a very disordered, messy kitchen, holding a plate of salted scrambled eggs, neatly placed on the right side of the dish, just as her daughter likes it. They are too salty, Elizabeth complains. And where is the bun; you know I always like the bun on the side. Mrs. Hathaway heads back up to the kitchen. She has forgotten, she realizes, that her daughter likes her eggs scrambled and not too salted, that she always eats them with a bun on the side, that she has to have a glass of milk no later than 12 p.m. Elizabeth waits impatiently, tapping her manicured nails on the table. I can’t believe she has forgotten, she mutters again. By the time Mrs. Hathaway returns back with the bun carefully placed on the side, not touching the eggs, Elizabeth has already reached her car, shaking her head, her stomach growling loudly. Mrs. Hathaway stands by her daughter’s empty chair, staring at the dish she had prepared with such delight. As Elizabeth pulls her Mercedes out of the driveway, Mrs. Hathaway sits her self down to eat. Yes, I added a tad too much salt, she says as if she is speaking to Elizabeth.

With a mild, not too rich Indian accent, the dark-haired girl discusses her medical goals and prospects with a man she refers to as “sir”. Her politeness and formal speech suggest that the person on the phone is of higher authority, a future boss perhaps. Lost among conversations and other distracting noises, her words become muffled. Then I hear her talking about the volunteer work she does at the Harvard University Hospital. Impressive, I whisper to Kat, who doesn’t even hear me. I assume that this young student either wants to be a nurse or a doctor. I am sure her parents dream of their daughter being a successful doctor, a top surgeon, a respectable figure. Moments later, after a hard road bump, the bus comes to a halt, waking the boy next to me. The Indian girl politely thanks the man on the phone and says good-bye. Carrying a content face, she gets up from her seat and approaches the doors, waiting to get off at the next stop. Right before she departs the bus, her phone rings.

The blond sitting next to him was busy studying something; it was an interesting read for her, he could tell. He had put off studying for weeks and now he had finally arranged a time to study in quiet. The girl was now whispering into her little, pink cell phone. “I’ll meet you there tonight”, he heard her say. I wish I could ask for her number, he thought, but decided against it. It would be too awkward and she would probably say no anyway, he convinced himself. Just as he was getting ready to start the new chapter, his phone rang, startling both him and the girl. It was his American friend, the one he was dying to see. They flirted and teased each other for a while, and then he told her about the hot blond, lowering his voice significantly. By the time he finished talking, the blond had already walked out, leaving behind a small, torn piece of paper. He looked around, wondering if she would return, then reached for the paper. Written in bright pink letters were a name and a phone number. He smiled and placed the paper inside his jean pocket.

I saw him again, the man who always carries his drawing board to the Barnes and Noble bookstore. Earlier that morning I was getting coffee from the adjacent Starbucks when I saw him having coffee with a friend. He was wearing his usual, unkempt, yet intriguing look, his drawing board right beside him among other things. As I waited for my order, I noticed that the bearded man had begun to draw, swiftly moving his fingers across the board; I wondered if he was drawing the coffee addicts in their bright red, winter attires. Later that evening, I took Shirley Jackson’s bizarre book for a quiet read at the Barnes and Noble. I found an empty couch and took my seat without hesitation. As usual, I glanced around before I began reading, trying to get a feel for where I was and who I was sitting next to. And that’s when I saw him, my favorite artist; he was reading a newspaper on a couch just two feet away. There was no sight of his board; he was only there to read that night.