Dear you,
Is this what love is? Or is this what loving you feel like? For me, this is love. Because all I have experienced is loving you. Just you. No one but you.
The human heart is a ferocious little thing, isn’t it? Residing in our ribs, protected by bone and flesh, and yet remains defenseless against the frostiness entrusted upon it by another, whether deliberately or unintentionally. It is rebellious and refuses to back down, even though the end has been made clear. But it is fragile too, a soft chaotic mess, breaking, mending, breaking, death repeatedly.
On our good days, you were a great friend who I fancied. But on the days that it hurts, tremendously so, you became a bleeding wound. Alone, blurry eye, trembling hands, bleeding red. On the verge of cursing you, but only a fool would curse her own heart. Hence, I end up waiting for this agonizing ripple to pass.
My mind ridicules, this lover of yours will end us all, leave us malnourished. And in that state of despair, I give my word. To distance. But then I see you, that smile and everything is forgotten. I was cruel to myself and selfless to you.
Do not ask me if the epilogue of our story will be gleeful or gloomy. I do not know if the wound will heal or become a scar. If it heals, I will be delighted and beam as I force you to dance with me, our synced heartbeats being our favorite song. And if you become a scar, I will let you and the part of my heart colored white go.
I no longer pray for us to be companions, for us to find each other if we get lost in the chaos of life. I pray for happiness. So if our happiness is with each other, I am sure we will meet again someday, somewhere, and write the end of this story together.
With love,
Me.