And words are not what she wanted but words are what she asked for.
What she wanted was the subtelty in his actions that would speak for him everytime he would act. In the way he would look at her on waking up, or in that smile he would give her just randomly, or in the way he would sit close to her, or in the way he would greet her on coming back home, or in the way he would eat with her at dinner, or just a tiny snuggle before he went on with his snoring slumber… In all these ways, or just one of them. In all these days, or just one of them.
There was something about him that would make her sixteen again. The crazy think-about-him-all-the-time love. She would wait for him like a new-in-love school girl. Tiny little things about him would make her immensely happy. And all she would strive for were those tiny little things.
The tiny things she would hope to happen. The tiny things that wouldnt. The little gestures she would look out for all day. The little gestures that werent. And she will try to fill her empty heart with words. Her words. His words. Their words. Said and unsaid. Written and spoken. Blurted out and asked for.
That’s when she would ask him about himself, and herself and love and how it makes the world go round. That’s when she would look to make a big show of tiny things. She would have pompous celebrations over nothing and would pour her fervour in everything she would do. And she would look for the same from him. Big words. Big show. He thought she was being superficial. But words arent what she wanted from him. But words are all she could ask for. To mend what was broken. To fill what was empty.