I’d rather this story end a different way: where I fall instead for ideas instead of words, to fall for fiction instead of you. This must be what loving for real is like: to stay up beyond midnight thinking of what could have been, to remember every little thing you ever told me, and to end the day with words from you. All I have done so far is wish, even if I know that not all dreams come true (thank you for that, Disney). But as always, I still do.
I wish I could tell you how happy you make me. My happiness didn’t stem from you, but you contribute a huge part of it still. Not a day goes by that I don’t find myself breaking into a smile whenever you pass me by, or when I’d catch you for conversation’s sake. I wish you knew that. I wish you did. I wish I could tell you that you make my breath catch in my throat, that I struggle to form words properly when I’m with you, and yet you’d stick around despite that.
I wish I could tell you that I’m going to miss you, popping around in different parts of my week, and knowing that that will become a mere memory instead. If I could only bottle up our moments together, I’d have jars full of them. Is it easier to fall for someone real than an idea? I don’t know what to do at all. And I wish I could tell you all this in such a short span of time, but of course I’d keep it all in instead. I’d keep it all in not because I don’t have the capability to say them, because I can. It’s because of your incapability to return everything else. I no longer wish to take a stab in the heart, but I know it’s inevitable when it comes to you.
I wish I could thank you for giving me parts of your life instead of mere moments, of allowing me to know you, to welcome me back. Just as you are, not as you could have been. I’ve long given up on ideas because of you. Well, I never said love was easy, even if I wish it were.
I wish I could tell you that you never made sense at all to me, and yet I tried to make sense of you, just as you tried to make sense of the world. And somehow, everything falls into place, however much you never realised it was so.
Even if I could write down all those times we shared, and the whole world would know about it, it wouldn’t make as much as sense as it did to us, or at least to me.
Nothing good ever comes from that.