Shona this is for you my fellow admirer of Armaan in tears.
The first time, the agony of having missed an opportunity, of miscalculation, fear of having squelched the beautiful bud of romance blossoming hesitantly like a flower bud with fresh dew drops waiting to bloom, disconsolation, the fear that this is it, there is not going to be another chance, fear of having bungled up, and the innocence of the first agony.
The second time around, the fear of losing someone dear to the heart, someone precious, a little angel who brought sunshine and smiles, mischief and masti, the unwillingness to believe something tragic will befall someone so precious, the faith, the silent offering of misery in return for her life, the guilt at having failed to protect, and the helplessness of not being able to do anything.
The third time the agony of a soul whose call is understood but unacknowledged. The pain of knowing what can be but will not be, the longing to be as one, the yearning to have the thirst quenched, the agony of having water but being denied, the anger, the frustration and yet the hope.
Finally despondency, frigidity, hollowness, coldness, as if the pain has seeped into the marrow and chill indifference flows through the veins its icy fingers closing on the heart, squeezing it till one is comfortably numb.