Day 8 #passion #vss365 #uropoet Ina had been quiet since morning. Kabir noticed it first in her messages. Short replies. Long pauses. When he asked if she wanted to meet, she hesitated. Maybe not today. A few minutes later, Kabir sent her a location. Come here. Ina replied, Kabir… I really don’t feel like meeting anyone. He answered almost immediately. Then don’t meet anyone. She stared at the message. A second one followed. Just meet me. She almost refused. Instead, an hour later, she walked in. Kabir was already there. He did not ask what was wrong. He only looked at her, moved slightly to make space beside him and said, “Come here.” Ina sat down. For a few moments, she kept her hands folded in her lap. Then she leaned into him. Kabir opened his arm and drew her close. Her head rested beneath his chin. He adjusted his arm until she was comfortable and placed his other hand over hers. His thumb moved slowly across her knuckles. Nothing demanded. Nothing explained. Just somewhere she did not have to hold herself quite so carefully. After a while, Kabir reached into his bag and took out an old notebook. Ina looked at it. “What’s that?” He turned it over in his hands. “Something from another version of me.” “You wrote?” “Once.” He looked at the old pages. “I had more passion for things then.” Ina looked at him. “Maybe you still do.” “Read me something.” Kabir opened the notebook. The first poem was brief. i speak less but i am listening always not because i don’t feel but because i feel too much Ina stayed very still. Kabir turned another page. a dichotomy in how heartbeats behave one moment they arrive with a thud the next they depart leaving a hole Halfway through, Ina’s eyes filled. Kabir felt her shift against him. He stopped. She shook her head. “Keep going.” So he did. A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. When the poem ended, Kabir closed the notebook. He did not ask why. He only gathered her closer, one hand at the back of her head, her face against his chest. Ina held onto his shirt. For a little while, she cried there. Quietly. Kabir rested his cheek against her hair. No reassurance. No promise that everything would be fine. Just his hand moving slowly through her hair until her breathing softened. When she finally looked up, her eyes were still wet. “Sorry.” Kabir shook his head. “You don’t have to be.” Ina settled against him again. After a moment, she touched the notebook. “Read another.” Kabir turned a few pages. “This one is different.” “How?” He smiled. “You’ll see.” Then he read. perhaps love is simply finding someone beside whom you need less armour someone who does not ask for the whole story and somehow still understands where it hurts Ina did not move. Kabir lowered the notebook. For a moment, she remained against his chest, her fingers still curled into his shirt. Then she whispered, “Again.” And Kabir began from the first line.