Two Lines

twenty seven

Ulysses by James Joyce.
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert.
Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling.
Sati by Christopher Pike.
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.
The Company of Women by Khushwant Singh.
Hamlet by William Shakespeare.
Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman.

He stopped scanning through her collection of powerful stories. They seemed varied, the concept of each story was obviously to see through different perspectives, to understand human kind, to acknowledge and be away from humankind.

Yet he stopped reading out each title with happiness in his heart. She had followed what he had taught, she had picked up books as an alternative to change herself. But had not changed at all.

The small part of his heart which was filled with happiness, dissolved into nothingness. It replaced into something fierce, like burning rage to destroy each of those books and let him consume his defeat. He had failed to change her.

And he stopped caressing hardcopies of each book because he knew that she was there, in the same room, breathing the same air as him and still not melting to his fire.

"Universe is large. And you actually think stars are Sun?"

He wanted her to reply, to listen her before looking her, to change science by converting the speed of sound greater than that of light.

"No, Sun is a star and you are an idiot."

He closed his eyes.

"But, Kanak, to it's own solar system, the star is a Sun. And all stars are Sun for their group of particles, slowly growing and converting itself into black hole. Inevitable destiny."

"When did you mastered in Astronomy, Mr. Architect?"

He turned and opened his eyes. They connected to a pair of beautiful black eyes.

Black holes.