I’m glad, you left.

Falling for you wasn’t that bad you know ? I mean obviously we didn’t end up together. Obviously we aren’t the new Augustus and Hazel but at least you inspired me to become a person with words. What’s your inspiration they ask . I mostly talk about anything except you, I’m too selfish to make you a great part of my life now that you’re gone. “Your words feel so real” they often tell me. I wish I could show them what we had. Darling, mere paper isn’t enough to represent the fire we had. My pen is too weak to capture our moments. They weren’t the best, but they were “ours”. I’ve realised no matter how much people pretend, they have a soft corner for broken hearts. They still prefer incomplete love stories over a happily ever after. Mine, well, they are full of heart breaks, you see. It’s fictional, I announce to the world. Again, because I don’t wanna name the soul that wounded my heart. Bleed your heartbreaks through words, I repeat to my friends. Lately, I found out that my friends preferred to read a character’s half told, heartsick story than to hear my own. So be it.  There’s not much difference between the girl who lives in my words and me, except her story ends with a definite full stop. Mine ends in the middle of a sentence. That’s from where I completed hers. So, my preface  someday might read your name. When I’m old enough to let it go and mature enough to give you your due credit. It’s so ironic how I preach about existence of love out there, tell them to hold onto their hopes. But we live in a world made up of ironies. We live in a castle of false assumptions. So let this be yet another one. Recently, I’ve started enjoying myself. Sadistic pleasure, you see. Of people who take pride in their partners and accidental “destined” meetings. It’s not long before they become a part of my group. My group of cynics and non believers. Not everyone is as cynical as I am. Not everyone is so dramatic as I am. But to be honest, not everyone felt something so deep , as I did .  I know my words and stories become repetitive. They are. I’m not denying that fact. But you can’t blame me for that. Writing expresses your inner emotions, I read this line online. It does. For my writing, expresses the words I can’t speak from my mouth. So this girl,from my pages does. But you know,  you’re lucky. Words have immortalised you.

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