Dear Friend, The world, you, me, this letter and the ever-flowing continuum of time. I write this to you, knowing, and that too very clearly, that these letters containing mixed and incoherent feelings of a late teenager, as always, will never reach you. It’s winter here, and today, probably the coldest day of this season. And I do not write this letter from my home sitting on my comfortable bed, inside the blanket drinking a hot cup of tea. As I write to you now, I am in a cold and prickly metal chair, it’s chillness entering my hipbone, my feet half numb with frost, one hand holding a diary and a blue pen on the other running both ends of a blank paper, sitting very uncomfortably and thinking about you, suffering from… God knows what. And strangely, I don’t want to move, not if my backbone splits, or my foot gets frostbite. Don’t judge me dear, and I know you will not, but I have asked myself countless times why I am writing like this to you. Honestly, I don’t have ...