So there was this girl I used to know who
would send sad-sad stuff to my email
address at 5PM in the evening. I will
call her: My five PM Girl.
If I were to take out an inventory today
of all the things that she emailed to me
over the last few months, I would mention
the following three items (the last
One sad story
One Sad poem
One sad song
For the life of me, I cannot say with
100% certitude, the exact event, or the
set of events, that triggered her on an
email sending spree.
Maybe, it was something to do with me:
something I wrote, something I said, or
maybe something I left unsaid.
I once sent her a short story: The 100%
Girl by Haruki Murakami. It was about a
short story — of two 30 year olds, who
were 100% match for each other, only for
both of them to fall sick and lose each
and every loving memory they had of each
Shortly, afterwards, I received an email:
a short storylet about knaves pretending
to be knights and about a working girl
who is miserable because she has to deal
with the many unwanted suitors in her
Then, once, while I was traveling deep
South, trying to nurse my broken heart (I
still don’t know what broke it; or who
broke it; or the exact day it broke) the
5PM girl sent me a link to a sad song (it
was 5 PM).
The song was about unrequited love: guy
meets girl on the subway, falls in love,
comes to know she is already taken,
doesnt let go (because, oh!, he has a
plan). The song ends with the guy
realizes the futility of his love. He
takes takes off his shoes, watch, and
dives off a bridge into a river. It was
Sometimes, when we met, she would look at
me, and say: “Why so sad, Amit?”.
I would mumble something about the
weather, some vague illness, centuries old tiredness, but never the truth: that meeting and then leaving her was sad. It was like you were thrust from sunshine to somewhere dark and it was very cold and all you wanted was curl up under a thick, warm, quilt and sleep.