Do we hold on to the memories, or do they hold on to us? There was a place on the way to Sinhagad, where the road turned, where you would park the bike on the way back. It would be night and the stars hung low in a midnight blue sky. How cliched. Just like us. A part of you was impatient to get back. You had work on Monday. What would I know of such things: I could just bunk one class and sleep.
Unforgiven
Originally Posted at Prerona.
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