First of all, HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY to everybody. Share the love.
Next... this is going to be sad. And romantic. And sad.
It had been a few years since we had talked. The last time I saw him, he was off to find out about post-graduate studies in Texas. I moved to Kuwait. He was always someplace I wasn’t.
I went to Dubai for a training course. It was February 13th when I arrived at the hotel. I finally fell asleep after a late flight and difficult travel. I planned to call him the next day; Valentine’s Day wishes were my excuse for calling him after so long.
That night I dreamt he was next to me. I could see his face vividly in front of me. I could smell his cologne. He took my hand and told me that the days he spent with me were the happiest of his life.
I woke up feeling strange and I called his mobile number in the afternoon. It was disconnected. I tried his private line at home. It too was disconnected. I gave in and called his father’s business. His uncle answered the phone and told me that Shamlan was dead of a “heart attack”. He was 36.
It couldn’t be. I thought they were lying to me. I thought it was some kind of a dark trick. I called our mutual friends from years ago. It hadn’t been a heart attack, but something more brutal and questionable.
Then I remembered the dream. He had given me the best Valentine’s gift on the worst Valentine’s Day of my life: He was the happiest when he had been with me.
I went to Dubai for a training course. It was February 13th when I arrived at the hotel. I finally fell asleep after a late flight and difficult travel. I planned to call him the next day; Valentine’s Day wishes were my excuse for calling him after so long.
That night I dreamt he was next to me. I could see his face vividly in front of me. I could smell his cologne. He took my hand and told me that the days he spent with me were the happiest of his life.
I woke up feeling strange and I called his mobile number in the afternoon. It was disconnected. I tried his private line at home. It too was disconnected. I gave in and called his father’s business. His uncle answered the phone and told me that Shamlan was dead of a “heart attack”. He was 36.
It couldn’t be. I thought they were lying to me. I thought it was some kind of a dark trick. I called our mutual friends from years ago. It hadn’t been a heart attack, but something more brutal and questionable.
Then I remembered the dream. He had given me the best Valentine’s gift on the worst Valentine’s Day of my life: He was the happiest when he had been with me.
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