It was perhaps the most unfortunate hour when my friend's diary was in my hands. The one for which I had longed but now for which I long that I hadn't touched it. Written were the words laced with love. Poems it contained, all very indicating. Wonderful were those lines, but who were they for? Within me, was it that jealousy that was talking to tear off the pages and burn them but, one more page, one more page and one more page. And with every turning page I drowned in her writings, I touched the pages to feel the touch left by her, but again the voice from inside called out, this time louder. This is what she had in store for me? Was this the reason why she kept it from me all these years. Tight-lipped about these damned pages was she, and now do I hold them in my hands, caress them and try to feel her touch? Was this written by Fates? But who were these lines for? The question seemed to urge me more to go through the lines, slowly written with care, as if literally mean...