Wanderer.
“Here, come in.”
She ran home painfully, closed all the doors, shut all the windows, turned off all the lights but one.
Then she tucked in her bed, and swore to herself ‘I will never let myself wander any further.’
She wandered too far from home. Forgetting that she always got to come home.
Then she slept, she was hoping that the pain would heal by itself.
Until one day, somebody knocked at her door.
She peeked through the window. Oh, a friend of mine, she thought.
I don’t even think I am strong enough to open the door for him, she thought again.
But then, she got up and opened the door eventually.
“Hey, what happened to you? You look horrible,” he said.
“I got hurt. I’d love to tell you the story, if you would. Here, come in.” she said.
She let him in.
She told him stories.
She told him everything.
He listened.
He comforted her.
He saw all the scars.
She thought ‘How grateful am I for having such a very good friend like this’
Hours passed by.
Days passed by.
All the laughs, jokes, hugs, stories, have been shared. She has never wanted anything better. He made her forgot about the pain.
Yes, forgot.
Until one day, things gone strange.
And then the next day, he’s gone.
He’s nowhere to be found.
As she looked down to her own body, she saw an open wound.
“What is this?”
The pain felt so familiar.
She looked around the house to look for him.
He hurt me.
She found a piece of paper, with a very familiar writings on it, saying ‘I am a wanderer.’
He left with the door opened.
As the days went by, she realized, letting him in was the worst thing she’s ever done.
If only I didn’t let him in, he wouldn’t have hurt me the way somebody did before.
If only I wait a moment longer until I got fully recovered, I might have been smarter not to let a stranger came in.
She thought he was a friend of her, but he was not.
Yes, he’s a wanderer.
We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us.
— Kahlil Gibran
