She was quietly sitting at the window, looking outside impassively. Her back resting along the wall, legs stretched out. The mild afternoon sunlight created patterns of the windowpanes on her face. The window was her favorite part of the house, where she could just be with herself, watching the trees and birds, listening to the waves in the distance. It was her space. She would sit here when she felt content and happy. She would read, write, listen to music, have coffee, make plans, dream. She would sit here when she was sad and unhappy. Cry, brood, curse her life, analyze the why.

I watched her from the doorstep. I generally left her alone when she would sit at the window. These days, I anyways couldn’t enter her space. I could only watch her from a distance. A few feet of distance which I couldn’t cross. On the wall next to the window, was that black and white photo of her. Sometime last year, I had taken that picture of her picking chilies from the garden with Alan by her side. She had added extra chilies in the chicken curry that afternoon to make it extra spicy. It was one of my favorite clicks of her. Wearing a simple white kurti with little flowery patterns over black pajamas, her hair tied in a bun over her head, she looked mellow and lovely like the little yellow flowers on a high-altitude meadow.

Alan was the only one allowed in her space. I see him smelling her feet, licking her ankles, he loved her unfailingly. He climbs into her lap, and she hugs him, with his little paws rubbing her cheeks. She had named him after Alanine, an amino acid; as a biochemist, she couldn’t think of a more creative name. I wish I could love her like Alan, love her without any questions and expectations.

The window was decorated by her just like she had done the rest of the house. Whitewashed walls, white curtains, big windows which allowed lots of light in. The wicker chairs, tiny bookshelves hidden in the living and bed room walls, the sal wood work desk in the bedroom, facing a large window outside of which was the Kanikkonna tree. During April-May, when the golden flowers bloomed, it would be difficult to move her from the desk or the bed. She would collect several flowers and put them in little glass wares filled with water in various nooks and corners of the house. On the oak wood coffee table in the living room, she had placed the round, turquoise Mdina glass vase, that she got custom made from the Ta’ Qali village during our trip to Malta. We could have bought one in the market, but she wanted a specially curated one, and she made me wait three hours that afternoon fully amused at my irritation. The vase would always be filled with flowers of the season. But more than flowers, it was the greens that were her real thing. Every corner, shelf, crevice, basically any space that could be spared and wouldn’t block free movement, had a plant of some size.  Aloe Veras, Gerberas, Areca palms, Philodendrons, all had a place in our house. On the lamp table near her bedside, she had a red Gerbera daisy, which she believed gave her a good sleep.

She had chosen this house because of the high ceiling which gave the feeling of a lot of space, and the large garden area, where today we grew most of the vegetables going into our kitchen. She didn’t have much skill in gardening though, and I sometimes think that she chose to be with me because I was good at it, or that at least I was better than her. So growing vegetables in the garden was my job. She would just sit on the porch in a wicker chair, and watch me getting all sweaty and dirty in the soil. She would say that it aroused her watching me pluck the cabbage, pull out the potatoes and carrots, shoveling manure.

On most evenings, we would go to the beach, sit there, gaze at the seagulls flying across the red horizon, and listen to the music of the waves. Alan would run around, explore the crevices in the sand for hidden snails, and when tired, he would come and laze with us with a philosophical brooding look in his eyes. She would rest her head on my shoulder, and I would smell the sea salt and ritha of her shampoo. The fragrance of her shampooed hair was my favorite fragrance in the entire world, and there would be nothing else I wanted when with the salty wind flowing through our hairs, her fingers curled around mine, she would give a sudden peck on my cheek.

For a while now, I could touch that fragrance only in my memories. I hadn’t felt it for real, as she hadn’t come close to me. The garden, the plants, the curtains, the wind chimes, the walls adorned with our travel memories, all were in the same place and looked the same, but their music, fragrance and colors had paled. Silences hung in the air like question marks.

For a few moments, she turned her head and looked at me. Her face, free of any makeup, was glowing like the star she is named after. Her unkempt hair fell on her shoulders, with a long strand curtaining her right eye. She looked sad yet so beautiful. Just like that day two years ago, when I had seen her for the first time at that café. Wearing a crimson colored kurti, and black leggings, she was having a banana Nutella pancake with maple syrup. Alan was there by her side then too. That day I missed a high paying job opportunity, but I found her and through her, I found meaning in my life. Looking at me now, she gave me a tired smile. As if she was tired with the expectations of everyone around her; who claimed to love her but couldn’t let her be the way she felt. As if she was tired pretending to be all right when she wasn’t.  I thought that with her sad eyes and tired smile, she was asking me to hug her, to love her, just love her and not say anything. Then her eyes turned back to the window. Maybe it was my own longing for her that I saw in her eyes. I didn’t want to lose the meaning and purpose of my life.

Alan looked at me with his soulful eyes. He felt my longing, and I think he wanted me to come in and join them. I was glad she had Alan by her side as he loved her more than anyone else. I remained outside, and would wait for her to invite me in. I hope she will. That one day, once again, the wind chimes will sing in unison with the bulbuls. I would sit across her, with Alan cuddling in my lap, and we will watch the butterflies dancing around on the daisies. Until then I will leave her at the window, and wait at the doorstep.