The lot to which I belong, the lot being the writers, were a curious and an observant bunch. In my case, the observant part of my brain was overtly dominant, that too to an extent that even a thread lying on the floor wouldn’t escape my eyes. The apartment seemed to have musky aroma, the curtains holding back the light of the city as though a canopy holding back sunlight. The rooms were painted grey with an unarranged bed. The bed sheet and the blanket happened to be white, creased, with stains of coffee and paint. I was, however, grasped with certainty that she had an obsession of white and grey. It was mind boggling though; a bit of an oxymoron as to why a person with such a colorful or rather to say a vibrant personality have such a subtle taste of colors for her surrounding. As my eyes wandered around, I caught on to a few things, which to me, were stubbornly scattered. There lay a white mug on the rugged brown carpet, with traces of coffee I reckon seemed days old. The ashtray by the side of the bed held burnt out cigarettes; Marlboro Hard, few burnt to the bud and few left undone. The sweet smell of stale smoke that still lingered in the room however, made me nostalgic. I could remember flashes of my times in London; I remember the dorm, which shared the same smell of stale smoke and burnt cigarettes, I remember as I made my way through each novel I read. The nostalgia was broken as she called out my name.