Noah by Eva Al-Meshal

In order to understand this, you must first learn who Noah really is.

I’m not sure if every human being is granted this experience, or if it’s something that only happens once in every hundred-some-odd years, like those special comets that can be seen from the Earth at certain times. Whichever it is, it’s certainly something that a person can’t ever forget. When it happens, it feels almost like the first time you see the ocean (or some other grand design of nature). That’s how it was for me, at least. 

It must have been about 20 years ago when I met him. It’s crazy how time flies, and how it has the ability to erase or engrave certain memories and experiences so pristinely. I can’t seem to remember not knowing him – or perhaps I choose not to – but everything before meeting him seems so blurry. In fact, meeting him and knowing him was all blurry. He was one of the most talented men I had ever met when it came to the art of blurriness, and yet, that’s what seemed to make any moments of clarity between us so precious. It’s funny how things play out like that.

His name was Noah, and he was an absolute mystery. He had this uncanny gift of being able to give off the vibe that you were the closest person to him in the whole world, even if you didn’t know him at all. His charms had this way of captivating and engaging all your senses at once, but he was irrevocably jaded. If you looked closely, you could see how his experiences had aged him way beyond his years – he was only 26 at the time, but his mind was just like a Rubik cube that one couldn’t resist trying to solve. Somehow, though, he was still able to fool his unsuspecting victims into playing with the string of hope he dangled in front of them nonchalantly. There was nothing and no one that was beyond his reach, and all the girls who still ached for him even after he had treated them like shit were proof that he could “have his cake and eat it too”. He was the precise recipe for a beautiful disaster of the heart, and it just so happened to be monsoon season in mine. It was horribly perfect and perfectly horrible timing, as it is with most stories that involve that stubbornly fixated organ we call the heart.

*To be continued…

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