How exactly would you feel if I wrote about you? Truth be told, I wrote about you countless times. Maybe it’s my way of holding on to memories and unanswered wishes of the heart. There’s always this feeling where I just want to write anything and everything about you. It seems more real to dot down details of how we were. Sometimes, it makes me forget that you never left. It was both a perfect illusion and a beautiful delusion that kept me moving each day. A small world tuck away in the deepest part of my brain where realities and dreams seems to mess up in unison. A perfect collision where I can’t seem to differentiate the truth from the lies. It was after all a beautiful lie. Each letter stroke, made it more believable. It was euphoric and I can’t seem to stop myself from smiling but every story has an end. As the ending came closer, reality sinks in. The pain, struggles, and miseries slowly seeps into my vein like poison. Poison to my heart until I feel the numbness of it. I kept writing until it ceases the aches. Every written article, a piece of me dies with it. Those happy moments kept me alive and kills me at the same time. I’m feeling half alive but you shouldn’t hate yourself for that. I did this to myself. I’m just sorry I kept writing about you but it’s my way of letting go. And a day will come, when I’ll stumble upon this once again. By then I’ll be smiling because a part of me was foolish. I’m sorry for dragging you into this. I’m sorry for immortalizing you in my writings with a taint of darkness. I’m sorry.
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