If I die tonight, how would Sherlock Homes reach the conclusion that I was single.


The AC vents in my car, every single one of them, faces me.

The only missed calls I have are from my boss.

The bills in my drawer have the same order – ONE black coffee.

The prominent lines on my neck that I get from reading and blogging late nights.

The time sheet at my office that shows I am putting in extra hours.

The scent on my clothes is mine. Just mine.

The absence of purple spots on my neck, and thin red scratches on my back.

The overdose of alcohol in my blood.

The traces of nicotine on my fingertips.

The questionable internet search history.

The stress lines on my forehead.

The dark circles of insomnia.

The faded laugh lines.

The painful monologues in my journal.

The abstract melancholic doodles of crying jokers on my notepad.

The resilient smile on my face that I’ve put to conceal my emotions… it’s so fake that I’ll be smiling even after my demise.

“It’s elementary my Dr. Watson”, he says.

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