I was crossing the road, and he was behind me. Some fifteen steps between us. Out of nowhere, a car skidded towards us—the driver rotating the wheel furiously as the car lost its control. Paralyzed with fear, I watched as it went past and heard a loud thud sound. I turned around and saw it had hit him.

He went flying to the side of the road; his head cracked against the wall like an egg. His body was squeezed and he lay on the little gap between the car's bumper and the strong wall. His right hand rested straight from his shoulder, like the hands of an erect man in a children's drawing book, and his left hand lay pressed under the shredded body, the body that began to leak with patience.

People started surrounding him and the car. A few dialed some numbers— police stations and ambulances. I took a few steps towards the scene. The crowd was thin and I could see inside it. His blood had given him a bold, liquid aura around his head. I took more steps and was now face to face with him. His right eye faced the sky and looked unspoiled, his hair soaked with blood. Perhaps I wanted to touch him, help him. But what was there to help about? I just stood there and watched.

Our college gave us a one-day holiday for his passing. He wasn’t my friend but my classmate. On the day he died, like always, he sat three benches behind me. Although we never spoke, he loved me. He showed it everywhere. The way he looked at me until I glanced back at him. The way he talked whenever I was around him. It was clear, and most importantly, I knew it.

I showed no interest in him because, I won’t lie, he was ugly. Unattractive. Unpleasant to look at. That was all the fault there was, I guess. No matter how much I wanted to look at his inner beauty, personality, or whatever I should have looked at, I couldn’t see anything past his ugly appearance. Maybe I didn’t even look in the first place, because I always tried to avoid his presence. Hideous. Just plain ugly. His eyes were uneven, his nose was weird, he had no facial symmetry, his body was weak, and his hair was a disaster.

I hate myself for thinking this way, but God should have made him beautiful, or just average. Perhaps it’s me that God should have made better. Maybe it’s the judgemental society we live in and the biological wiring. But I know I am not innocent. The love for me inside his heart was beautiful though. I didn’t deserve it, but that’s all I ever needed. All these times I knowingly ignored his love because it was from him and sought the same love from someone better-looking. I know I am going to do that again, but I wish I could change.

I shouldn’t be sad because I shouldn’t. It’s stupid. I didn’t want to care in the first place, I have to remind myself. Because even if he woke up now, I would still hold on to my disinterest. I am not a person who cares about him. I have several options. I can choose from many — and there are many — there have always been. I know it’s bad, but I can’t see past his ugliness. And I don’t even wish I could. I enjoy being this way. His death is not supposed to change me. Nothing is supposed to change me. Because I want better, I want the best, and I have got only this one life. He was ugly, and I am not. There’s no reason for me to compromise.

A photo by jiao tang from Pixabay

I know it’s unfair that he died. He didn’t deserve that at all, even the tiniest bit. But that’s life, and I do feel bad about him. I wish God grant his family strength and hope. These days I also wonder, "What if I had shown interest?" But no answer comes to my mind—I only love to ask questions— because ultimately, there's no point in finding any answer. And maybe I am not a villain as much as I am labeling myself. I know when he chose to love me; he rejected all other girls that were, like me, accessible to him in theory. And this rejection was motivated by nothing but physical beauty alone. Yes, physical beauty alone. Because he didn’t know me. We never even talked. He surely had an interest in knowing me. If I had given him some obvious hints, he would have made some moves. He would have dedicated his time to getting to know me and figure out what kind of person I am. But he didn't. Observing his death at that proximity has made me label myself as some sociopath, but in the grand scheme, we are all hypocrites if not victims. I have realized this. I am not that bad, but simply as much as everyone else.

But still after so many days and all these inner fights of righteousness and hypocrisy and imagination, I can’t control what flashes in front of my eyes. A dead body and what could have been.