You

(To an imaginary muse)

 

I do not remember the first time I saw you, or the first time I talked to you. I do not remember thinking, “Oh my God, he’s so perfect!” Maybe I never did. But I remember the first time someone said the word ‘perfect’ and your name flashed in my mind, and I blushed a little too much. I remember feeling a little too warm inside the only time you were being slightly protective of me. I rushed home from college and scribbled lines after lines about you, in my diary. I remember feeling a little too hurt when you said something I didn’t want to hear, crying a little too much when you stopped talking to me, and feeling a little too happy when you started talking again. I remember laughing a little too hard at your jokes even when no one else did, but I stopped when my friends asked why, because I didn’t have an answer. I wasn’t in love with you. I couldn’t be in love with you.




I have been in love with so many people that I have lost count. Some of them loved me back, most didn’t. And I’ll tell you something, I have this crippling desire to be loved, and every time someone tells me that they do not love me, it kills me a little inside. So, I cannot express how it felt when you told me that I will never be loved, that I am not meant to be loved. You didn’t notice that I was blinking away the tears pooling in my eyes even as I smiled, nodded, and told you that you were right. And that day, I hated you. I hated you more than I hate most people, because a simple thing you said broke me more than most things could, and at the same time, I hated myself, because I cared so much about your opinion. And the following night, when I was tossing and turning in my bed at two in the morning because I couldn’t sleep, I realized that I might have fallen for you.

 

Someday, I might just fall out of love. Someday, I might hate you real bad, and not want to see your face, the one that makes me so happy now. Someday, I might wonder why I never told you all the things that I meant to. Someday. Till then, as much as I hate the fact, and as much as I hate admitting it, I love you.

 

 


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