The Arithmetic of Love

 The Arithmetic of Love

Time is a ruthless accountant. It neither forgives the principal nor waives the interest. It keeps track of every moment, every promise, every breath. And love? Love is no exception to this arithmetic. Every moment in love is a transaction—sometimes a gift, sometimes a debt, and sometimes a burden so heavy that even fate cannot clear it.

Some bonds are quiet, but their silence is profound. They do not speak in words but in nuances. That’s how it was with her—few words, yet every conversation a puzzle. I wished for some dialogues to stretch, for some feelings to unfold, but she always stopped just where hearts could have unraveled.

What use is recognition if I slip from her gaze and fall from her heart? What victory is there in being known when the one who once held my existence dear now walks past me like a stranger? To be accepted yet abandoned is a paradox too cruel to bear.

I knew that hoping for truth was a stubborn dream, yet my heart clung to the illusion that maybe, just maybe, a flower of affection might still bloom. But one who hesitates to offer even a smile—how could she ever hand over her heart?

Love’s paradox is such that even in leisure, I am occupied. A single moment is vast enough to hold an eternity, and I find myself lost within it. I sit idle, yet my mind is crowded with her presence.

The prison of memories is a peculiar one. No chains, no guards, yet an inescapable captivity. And I, too, have become its prisoner—so much so that the routines of life now seem foreign. I have forgotten that the world has its own rhythm, its own customs, which I no longer seem to follow.

Sometimes, I feel her footsteps echo in my heart. Some dust stirs within me, as though she is passing by—like a breeze that lifts the past and scatters it. And perhaps, I too will turn to dust—carried away by the wind, fading into a forgotten tale.

Love ends in the strangest ways. The same person who wields the dagger is also the one who bleeds from it. Perhaps I, too, have died, slain by the very wounds she gave me. And yet, somewhere within me, I continue to live—trapped in the prison of her memory, while time, as always, keeps its accounts—collecting both the interest and the principal.