A poem written while working on What Meera Never Sent — on the particular patience of a promise that was never withdrawn, only left waiting.
A letter folded once, then twice, then kept —
not lost, only unfinished, like a road
that ends because the traveller never came.
Some promises don't break. They just stop moving,
and wait, patient as water in a well,
for someone, years on, to lower the rope again.
I wrote this before I had a name for the novel it belongs to. Jaison's story kept circling back to a particular kind of waiting — not the dramatic kind, but the quiet, ordinary sort that people build whole lives around without noticing. A well doesn't ask when the rope will come back down. It just stays ready. That felt closer to the truth of what I was writing than anything I could have put in a paragraph of prose.
Read more about What Meera Never Sent →
Enjoyed this? Buy me a coffee — it helps keep the stories coming.