Days gave way to weeks and the backlog of conversations continued to pile up. Mental notes for each other got relegated into the background with their sporadic interactions. He sensed a note of aloofness. But he didn’t recognize the hurt in her eyes or the indifference in her tone.
They never forgot to whisper endearments to each other but didn’t think it was important to converse about the mundane. They just never had sufficient time. Or they simply chose to believe in that fallacy, because it was the easy way out.
It got difficult to pick up the thread of the conversation on the days that they did speak. There were awkward silences, moments of outbursts and faked emotions. Instead of being honest with each other, they had begun being politically correct. Formalities crept in very stealthily. The lies came out with greater ease. And the other couldn’t even decipher the lies. She didn’t know what hurt more. The fact that she lied to him or that he didn’t care that she was lying.
To be fair to him, he initiated the conversations. But there was little incentive to take them forward. These days, they knew too little of each other in order to be able to do that. They were too busy earning a livelihood, marooned in their own worlds.