They dream parallel dreams and it is only in this parallel universe that they meet. Sometimes a stray wanders in their dreams- a butterfly, a cat, a dog, and once, a mountain lion. 

She was already drowning when she met him.

She listens to the breaths of the ocean- swoosh splat- the waves crash against her cheeks. 

The saltiness of the ocean mixes in with her tears. She is floating but in a moment, she will be sinking, into that deep silent ocean.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes,  and readies herself for that final moment.

She knows that soon she will be enveloped in a cocoon of silence, a silence she yearns so much for; the incessant chatter in her mind has kept her awake for months. She craves that nothingness and prays that the fear of a painful death when her body is deprived of oxygen, will dissipate soon. 

The balloon

Little Melody went to the fair. It was a wonderful place, littered with Viking ships, roller-coasters, giant Ferris wheel, carnival games, cotton candy, juggling clowns, and beautiful balloons. It was a cool and breezy summer day, the heat wave had just passed, and the days were pushing languidly towards autumn. 

Little Melody was thrilled. She loved rides- the ones where she got to scream her lungs out and feel the blood rush to her head, she loved carnival games-the ones where she threw bean bags at milk bottles and shot at revolving balloons, and most of all, she loved the sweet cloud-like feel of cotton candy on her tongue. 

She held grandpa's hand loosely as she skipped around the fair, trying to decide where to start her fun. A clown with a humongous red nose and shoes walked past little Melody, he was carrying a bunch of glossy red balloons. Little Melody gazed greedily at the balloon. She loved balloons, especially the red ones. The clown smiled at her, and with a flick of his hand, plucked a single red balloon out from the bunch and placed it in little Melody's tiny hand. Little Melody smiled shyly at the clown, mumbled a quiet thank you, and held on tightly to the red balloon. She was afraid the balloon would fly away if she loosened her grip for a second. 

With the balloon in one hand, little Melody walked to the carnival games section, wanting to try her luck at winning a teddy bear.

"5 shots for a dollar!" said the man at the air gun booth. Little Melody searched her pockets for 4 quarters with her left hand, as her right was still gripping tightly to her red balloon. She found the money, picked up the gun and shot at the revolving balloons. She missed all the balloons. She couldn't aim the gun properly with just one hand. little Melody was sore at not winning anything but decided that she would much prefer to take a heart-dropping roller coaster ride than try her hands at silly carnival games. She ran to the queue of the roller coaster but was told by the ticket master than she could not bring the balloon with her if she were to go on the ride. Little Melody made a face and looked as if she was going to cry. She walked out of the queue. She could not leave her balloon behind, not even if it was in the care of grandpa. 

"Who cares for roller coaster rides anyway?" 

At 7:23pm the sun turned amber and painted the fair in a soft, lazy orange glow. By this time, little Melody's sadness had grown to a monstrous proportion. She had been rejected from entering all the rides, she couldn't play the carnival games properly with one hand, her right arm was sore, and her palms were red and angry from gripping the balloon too tightly.

Grandpa and little Melody sat on a wooden bench and little Melody began to cry. Her day at the fair was ruined and she did not have any fun at all but she couldn't let go of the balloon, because it was hers and she loved it. 

Grandpa looked kindly at little Melody. 

"You know sometimes, we have to let go of the things we love, no matter how hard it is. The harder you hold on to something that is not meant to be held, you lose a bit of yourself and then one day, without you knowing it, all of your joy will be devoured. All that will be left then is sadness, emptiness, and a longing of what could have been."

Little Melody looked at grandpa with tears still glistening in her wide blue eyes. 

"I must let balloon go?" She asked. 

Grandpa nodded gently. 

"You will be free to enjoy all the things you love at the fair. Moreover, a balloon is not meant to be tied to anyone's hands. You know what I think? Balloons are at their best when they are flying high above the clouds." Grandpa winked at little Melody as he said this. 

Little melody understood then that one cannot hold on too tightly to anything in this world. One has to learn to let go, even if the heart aches a little at first. 

She loosened her grip on the red balloon,  its string brushed gently across her little palms and the balloon floated slowly into the dusty pink and orange skies. 

Little melody watched the balloon fly higher and higher. Her heart felt a tinge of sadness and joy, joy because the balloon did look like it belonged to the skies, joy because she was now free to enjoy the fair and She no longer had to fear losing the balloon. 

With a leap and a skip, little Melody and grandpa walked hand in hand towards the wonders of the fair. 

"How do you want to die?" He asked her. She looked at him, suddenly pensive. "I do not know. In a romantic way I guess. Like a Shakespearean tragedy." 

"Sometimes I look at you and I feel as if I see your soul. And it is that which I love, things that cannot be seen by the eyes. I love the way you tear when you read a particularly moving passage in a book. I love the way you stand up for any injustice you see. I love the peaceful look on your face, when you are strolling in the woods. I love how you seem to be able to feel the caress of the wind. I love how your entire being lights up when you hear your favorite piece of music and when someone talks about your favorite books. I love the enchanted look on your face when you learn a new skill, a new subject, a novel idea. I love the sound of your voice when you read poetries aloud to yourself (you didnt know I was eavesdropping, did you?). most of all, Elenanor, I love you for you, nothing more and nothing less."

The faculties of her mind

"There will come a time when I'll forget you, and maybe even myself. Because what am I made of, but memories? Memories, they are what define us. Callous words, words of love, angry words, hurtful words, conversations held deep into the night, they will all be gone, carried away by the wind. And no one will remember who has spoken what. But these letters, they remain and will remain forever, if you guard them with care. Each word carefully crafted, each word laden with my entire being. There will be no need to fight over who had said what to whom, those first words of love to you, you will know even when you grow very old, that it was me who loved you first. And when I lose all my faculties, show these letters to me, so that I can remember once again that I had loved someone (you, of course) with such ferocity and with all the wild abandonment of youth."

Eleanor wrote furiously, tears threatening to spill and ruin the letter. She inhaled sharply and rested the quill on her desk. She needed to get out of the house, out into the sun, and into the woods. The woods always calmed her and put her in a pensive (not in a bad moody sort of way) mood. 

She knew it would not be long before she forgot where the woods were. It would not be long before she would forget who George was, who she was, and all that they had shared together. 

She was losing her memory piece by piece. It started six months ago, when she was taking her usual leisurely stroll in the woods and when she had decided to return home, she could not for the life of her, recalled which path to take. She was not lost, mind you. In fact she had taken the very same path for the last decade of her life. She fumbled in the woods for more than an hour before finally finding her way home. No one knew about this incident. 

A month later, she had forgotten the home address of Elizabeth. And then she had forgotten her own address. She would forget the name of the chambermaid who had been living in her house for the last two years. 

Hence now here she was, writing a letter to George. He was the one person she could not afford to forget. She did not want to forget that there once was someone she loved with all her heart. She folded the letter carefully and hid it under her pillow. She would give him the letter soon. She hoped she would remember to do so. 

A dear friend

"Each and every time that I was determined to forget you and move on, you came and disrupted my plans. I should hate you for that but I can't. Maybe I never will. Each and every time u say something that makes me angry and jealous, but I forgive you anyway after a day. Maybe it is the start to a pure friendship. Maybe all the forgiving and forgetting will one day free myself from all that I ever feel for you. One day, there will be nothing left and I can look you in the eye and tell you, you've been a dear friend."

Eleanor wrote with determination but also with a sense of broken-heartedness in a letter addressed to George. Beneath her steely exterior, lay a heart that was weak, where a gentle blow could leave her grieving for weeks. At times like these, she hated herself and wished she was built differently.

She sealed the letter carefully, then paused and ran her fingers over the envelope. With her fingers lingering over the letter, she started to have second thoughts about sending out the letter.

Again, she hated herself for her impulsive determination, which would always weaken into a bout of indecisiveness. 

"Oh how wretched am I! This cowardice! This sorry excuse of a heart!" She buried her face in the palms of her hands, her face a contortion of anger (with herself), pain, and shame. 

With George, she never knew where she stood. But little did she know that George felt exactly the same way about her.

George said at his desk, the tip of his quill lingered over the thick, off-white paper that would eventually become a letter addressed to Eleanor. He had so much to say but had no idea where to begin. 

"Oh how wretched am I! To be in love with a woman with no heart! Absolutely abhorrent! What have I ever done to deserve this, my God!" He cried out. He threw the quill across the desk, the black ink splattered across the letter and the desk. He got up from the desk, furious with himself.

Ah, if only hearts in love could be tamed then there would be two less wretched souls in the world.

Love of his life

"Of course you can't find what you are looking for! You don't even know what you are looking for, don't you?!" The old man looked askance at the boy who looked piteously lost. 

The boy stared at the old man for a brief moment. Then sadly, he bowed his head. Yes, the old man was right. He had packed all his treasured belongings (which included a teddy bear with just one eye, $10 worth of loose change, his favorite book "treasure island", and a photograph of his mother when she was very young) determined to find the love of his life, you know, the kind that made your every pore feel alive, the kind that occupied your every waking moment, the kind that gave you goosebumps, the kind that drove you out of bed each morning, that kind of love. 

And yet, he did not know how that love of his life looked like; that love of his life had no name, not even, yes not even a category. Was it the pretty girl with the long dark hair who sat in front of him in science class? Was it a piece of music, a book, a hobby, a musical instrument, a pet? He didn't have the answer. 

The Two Fishermen

There were two fishermen at sea. I watched the two boats rock gently in the waves. One of them held on to two rods. The other had only one. I asked the one with two rods why he was doing that. He said,"So that I can have a higher chance of catching a fish! I will just take home whichever fish that first bites the bait." The fisherman with one rod just sat quietly with a slight smile on his face. On his face, I saw a quiet determination; he knew what fish he wanted to catch.
With a yelp, the fisherman with the two rods reeled in his catch. It was a small, beautiful fish. He was happy for a while. But then he started looking longingly at the other rod. Was he wondering about what he would have caught with the other rod? Would it have been a bigger, better fish? Or would it have been a worthless fish that couldn't feed anyone? This, he would never know. With one last yearning look at the rod, he decided to pack up his gear and rowed away.
The sun was almost setting and still the fisherman with the one rod, waited.
And then I heard a splish splosh. The fisherman had caught a huge, silvery fish with scales that glistened like diamonds. His face was aglow with pride and joy. This was the fish he wanted. Had lovingly prepared the bait for. Had carefully chosen the spot for. Had patiently waited for. With that, he sailed away with his prized catch into the sunset.

Love-2

Her grandmother had told her once before that the eyes could reveal one's soul. This was how she knew who the loveless ones were. The cold, lifeless stare was a dead giveaway. Those people lived in solitude, any forms of social gathering, was with a purpose- like hunting her tribe.
Babies were created in test tubes. Eugenics was accepted as the norm. The very word was revolting to Elisa.
Do they think they are God? She thought angrily.

Love

She was the last remaining few left. Her tribe is almost extinct. The remaining few on earth who still know what love is. The rest of the world no longer feel love and xenophobia has caused Elisa and her tribe to be hunted down.
Evolution has obliterated love completely in the human race as it has been shown for generations to be a largely useless and dangerous trait. Each generation began to love a little less and a thousand years later, a loveless human race was created.
Elisa and her tribe had however, continued to believe in the power of love.
She had seen how love could save lives and bring joy to those who knew how to love. She herself had been loved dearly by her grandparents and parents. Though she had never loved anyone else outside her family. Elisa had also seen the darker side of love and understood why her tribe is being hunted.

Dear Mr Pinkton,
This is my last letter to you. You have annoyed me tremendously and I shall never talk to you again. Please do not write me.

Yours sincerely,
I.A.

Ms Adler sealed the envelope carefully and dabbed a rose-scented perfume on the back of the envelope.

There! That should frighten that terrible man a little bit!

She had the maid mailed the letter out urgently.

A week went by and then another, and still no news from a certain Mr. Pinkton.

Ms Adler was highly agitated by now.

Oh that terrible, terrible man! I shall never ever speak with him again!

She sat at her desk and began writing the next nasty letter to Pinkton.

Dear Mr Pinkton,
I was just wondering if you had received my last letter, informing you to never write me again. I hereby, state it again, just in case that last letter was lost, that, You, Mr Pinkton should never ever write me again. I shall burn every last letter that you send my way!

Yours sincerely,
I.A.
Benjamin Pinkton chuckled at the rose-scented letters from Ms Adler. They were stacked neatly in a pile on his desk. He just loved to make that snobbish little woman mad. He pondered for a moment whether to finally write her back. Surely he has had his fun annoying her. He searched around for his stationery...his desk was a clutter of strange items that had no right to be on a desk: a half-eaten sandwich, an empty bottle of scotch, his razor, a bottle of formaldehyde...he finally found a crumpled sheet of paper.

Dear Ms Adler,
I received your last letter...but unfortunately, I couldn't read a word of it. You see my friend's bulldog had mistaken it for his lunch and devoured it. I managed to save some scraps of your lovely smelling letter... and they read," Dear Mr Pinkton, write me!"
Well, since you obviously are in love with me, here I am, responding to your call of desperation. If you would so like, meet me at the café on 21 Baker's street.

Love,
Benjamin Pinkton

The start of a book

Dear Mr Pinkton,
This is my last letter to you. You have annoyed me tremendously and I shall never talk to you again. Please do not write me.

Yours sincerely,
I.A.

Ms Adler sealed the envelope carefully and dabbed a rose-scented perfume on the back of the envelope.

There! That should frighten that terrible man a little bit!

She had the maid mailed the letter out urgently.

A week went by and then another, and still no news from a certain Mr. Pinkton.

Ms Adler was highly agitated by now.

Oh that terrible, terrible man! I shall never ever speak with him again!

She sat at her desk and began writing the next nasty letter to Pinkton.

Dear Mr Pinkton,
I was just wondering if you had received my last letter, informing you to never write me again. I hereby, state it again, just in case that last letter was lost, that, You, Mr Pinkton should never ever write me again. I shall burn every last letter that you send my way!

Yours sincerely,
I.A.