The one you love was supposed to be someone that makes you happy.
I was fine after last semester ended. It ended along with my feelings for that moron. Or at least that’s what I thought. As April neared its end, I was perfectly sure that I didn’t have any emotional investment. I’ve managed to moved on, I thought.
And then one night I remember the little moments, the awkward hi’s and hello’s along the corridors, the way you say good luck before the exams, the petty fights, the short nonsensical conversations.
All that. All that with a laugh. That night I lay half awake on my bed. Tears streamed down the corners of my eyes. And for the nth time, I recollected the impediments. Why it won’t work, why it can’t work.
Ever since these feelings grew on me, my thoughts of you ceased to make me happy. Instead there were tears. I only cry whenever I think of you. There weren’t rainbows and butterflies. You were the one I want and can’t have. The utter decisiveness of that thought felt unnegotiable. I was left with the mere choice of hurting. And though I knew it wasn’t, the pain seemed infinite.
Maybe I don’t love you at all.