The smell of the wet rain. The stench in a packed train. The steaming tea in the mud cup. The abrupt unending hiccup. The walk on the road when you miss your ride. When your heart broke, and the night you cried. The party that declared you lonely and unfit. The friends that pushed you to be brave and commit. The music blaring loud on the giant speakers. The dirt and grime on your old white sneakers. The favorite dish on the table served hot. The porridge left burning in the forgotten pot. The melted squishy chocolate, stolen from your sister. The jumbled-up words of the long tongue twister. The kiss unexpected and rewarding—a desire so strong. The escaped punishments for all the doings wrong. The conversations at night, when the lights are down. The knock on the door disturbing, when in sleep you drown. The gift from a stranger on your un-announced birthday. The stories you made up—for an excuse that you had to say. The moments on the terrace when you were declared lost. When found, Oh! The drama, the pain, and the cost. Sins confessed to a friend in an hour of enlightenment. Only to realize more to come, I am far from contentment. Nostalgia for me is an unending list. The feeling of happiness, which will cravingly remain missed.