She Never Asked Me Where I Was I don't usually write about people from my past. Not because I don't remember them, but because some people don't really leave your life; they simply become stories you tell differently as you grow older. She was one of those people. She came into my life quietly, without making any promises, and somehow stayed much longer than most people do. We didn't have a dramatic beginning. There was no love at first sight nonsense. We just started spending time together, and before I knew it, she had become part of my daily routine. We watched movies together. So many movies. We played games together. Far too many games. There were nights when I would tell myself, “Just one game and then I'll sleep,” and she would silently encourage the worst decision of my life by being ready for another one. I don't blame her. She never forced me. She simply sat there, waiting. That is what I liked about her. She was always available. She was also remarkably understanding. I could ignore her for an entire day and come back at midnight, and she wouldn't ask where I'd been. I could spend hours with other people and return to her without having to explain anything. She never demanded constant attention. Never asked for reassurance. Never said, “You've changed.” Never said, “We need to talk.” Looking back, she was probably the least demanding relationship I've ever had. She knew almost everything about me. My late night habits, my stupid searches, the things I watched when nobody was around, the games I played, the work I kept postponing, the ideas I started and never finished. She had seen me at my most productive and at my most useless. Mostly the second one. And despite knowing all of that, she stayed. Of course, I wasn't always good to her. Once, I hurt her badly. It was the middle of the night. I was asleep when I suddenly woke up because I needed to pee. Still half-conscious, I got out of bed and somehow managed to kick her. Don't ask me why. Even I don't know. I heard the sound and turned around. Her face had changed. Completely. The screen looked like the television when the dish suddenly stops working... lines, colours, chaos, the whole thing looking like it had received terrible news. I panicked. I genuinely thought I had killed her. And suddenly, all my usual attachment to money disappeared. I remember thinking, “I don't care how much it costs. I'll fix you.” I was already preparing myself for a morning trip to the service centre. I was mentally saying goodbye to my savings. Then I went to the washroom. I came back. She was fine. Perfectly fine. Working like nothing had happened. No explanation. No apology. Nothing. She just sat there as if she hadn't given me a heart attack five minutes earlier. I decided not to ask questions. Some relationships survive because people learn when not to investigate. Then came the water incident. I accidentally spilled water on her. Her face turned blue. And this was not the beautiful kind of blue. This was the kind of blue that makes you immediately remember how much money you have in your bank account. I looked at her. She looked at me. For a few seconds, neither of us moved. I thought, “That's it. I've ruined everything.” Again, I prepared myself for the worst. Again, I accepted that money didn't matter. Again, I was ready to get her repaired no matter what it cost. And again... I went to the washroom. I came back. She was working. Perfectly. At this point, I began to suspect that she didn't actually need a doctor. She just needed me to leave the room for five minutes. That was apparently her version of self care. Years passed. And slowly, I started noticing that she wasn't the same anymore. Some things stopped working. Some things started working far too enthusiastically. I'd press P once... and she'd give me: PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP I'd press it again to make sure it wasn't a mistake. She'd give me more. At some point, I stopped typing words and started negotiating with individual letters.
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