What’s more painful, waiting for a miracle that will never happen or accepting my fate. What’s the point of assessing every single word you say, analyzing every joke and calculating the time you take to answer my lame questions. What’s the point of the whole thing? I’m not sure who I became, too pretentious to be able to move on. I pretend 24/7 that everything is fine, that I can wait for a decade till we reunite, who promised me?
You were harsh today. Your words, your tone and how quickly you replied, all this rage reached me when I was dying for a breeze of hope. I bored you, I know. I misunderstood your kindness and pretended that my plan is working. You are missing me, you are being nice again, that was what I thought. While you were simply being sympathetic and merciful. None of us is at ease, none of us is enjoying this phase, and none of us is willing to hurt the other, or that is what I hope.
I desperately need to forget everything that happened between us, and roam foolishly around. It’s over, or it must be over. I have to return to the ruins of my life. Maybe gradually I’ll fit in it again, when you seem like a faint memory of a melancholic melody or an old romantic movie, maybe you will visit me as a half familiar half vague dream. I will always love you and I will always believe that we will never be together and I promise you that I will never surrender to love again.
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