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Saturday Afternoons

The fantasy of fairytales begin from the moment they tell that the bright, sunny days were fine.


Not in this fine country, they're not. A breezy day is fine because the wind rushes past and around you like children playing tag. A stormy night is fine because the rain rants and rattles off and even if you weren't listening, the thunder always has the right words.


The sun stares.


You, paralysed. You don't hear the click when your eyes lock on stillness. You were tricked. But you do hear the clock… tick.


The following happens all at once. Your mind plunges and your heart follows. You, terrified. In your head, the world stretches and shrinks. You, insignificant. You are doomed as history's subaltern, thought but unspoken. You, hopeless. All the unwritten next chapters. You, still. No one to call who could possibly understand that the sun is making you crack, that life is incomprehensible, that God is driving you crazy.


You, lonely.


Up to this point, you've always smiled mute at mentions of next chapters. After all, it's the appeal of the next page that keeps you here.


Isn't it?


The following happens all at once. A thought echoes, "If I can't take myself away, do the taking for me." A thought echoes.


"Astaghfirullah—"


That's when the sun's hold breaks — that you breathe deep and shift your eyes left blink right centre blink blink blink shake your head grab whatever you can until you meet the sun's stare again next week.


No, it's the fear of the Author's sequel.


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