I am probably better off now. Without secrets to keep from my parents. Without someone to come between me and my friends， me and my pastimes， me and my work， me and my sensible， understandable， utilitarian life. The life that I keep trying， keep failing to bring in line with the expectations that I keep trying， keep failing to make my own. It is not that I always feel like this， sometimes I yearn for those days when tears and laughter both came easy. Those easy and quick transitions from ecstasy to despair. When a compliment could keep my mind occupied for hours on end and a harsh word could prick like a pin the same skin which now seems dry and insensitive. Like probably millions around the world， I look outside the window of a crowded bus， lost in my own thoughts and wonder how it could happen to me.
Was I not supposed to be different from the rest？ Not for the silly schoolgirl infatuation with the football team captain or the fascination with the good for nothing， pot-smoking aspiring poet. Ours was a mature friendship that had blossomed into more. How could I feel a pang of envy then， when you lent a helping hand to another girl， when you spoke about someone who's far away and about to be married， when you were so involved in the book you were reading that you did not notice that we never met all day？When we decided that it had been too long and that we should meet， I carefully started preparing a package for you. A small poem， that book you always wanted but never found， an old photograph and a bar of chocolate for us to share. What would I wear and what would we talk about？ The package still remains in my drawer waiting for the phone to ring again.
It was a rainy Sunday afternoon when we sat in my tiny hostel room， discussing capitalism and campus gossip with equal fevor. When it seemed as if those conversations could last forever and we would never tire of them. When Joni Mitchell sang "California" seven times on continuous play before we thought of getting out.