"It just won't work."
"Another shot of us may be impossible right now."
"I'm sorry."
"You weren't made to love me."
"Her."
"She."
"Hers."
I had all these hopes and doubts to myself, not knowing you only cared less. People choose to conclude with the assumptions which weren't even part of the choices. And yet, some people do things that make others assume further, for either something better or worse.
That's simply part of the cycle of hurting.
It works either way.
It has to be one-sided or unfair, for it is to be realized to unfortunately exist in reality.
We are the negative measurement in an absolute solution. It is a fact I've already expected and reminded myself right from the beginning. And as you utter those harmful words, it was as if the concept seemed strange and new. It was as if-- depressing and unexpected. I guess that's how it works; the sudden amnesia you go through after waking up from a coma.
It will hurt. It will. It must have.
It hurts real bad once said by that certain person. Yet, you'll learn to heal yourself. You'll get to treat the wounds other people left you with. You'll get to stand up on your own, and greet another day with a much warmer smile, a new hope for another chance, a better opportunity, and a wider range of adventure. Not all sad endings continue its story as being sorrowful. Variables affect the plot. These variables would occur for the reason of giving another purpose; purpose of not only existing alone, but also living and surviving. Maybe that's why most of us find another hidden lap as we approach the finishing mark we have previously set.
Who knew that the stuntman who broke my heart has now given me the greatest reason to mend it; to make it even stronger and bolder? Who knew that I'd be this joyful to be freed by the falsity that seemed to exist, which I believed to be solemnly true and realistic? The person who gave me the difficulty to breathe has now freed me from the borders I was once afraid to go through; the one I built wrapped around me due to the previous bruises and scars of my heart. The person who I thought of as another misfortune has now become a good friend of the past; an acquaintance who gave me much more than impressions, but also curiousity and determination. Thank you for giving me this certain effect in my life; I thank you for guiding me towards selflessness and courageousness.
And now, I give up. Finally.
I give up.
Thank you, my love. I wish you well. This is our farewell for now-- MY farewell; the departure with an unplanned arrival.
Cheers to the chances we've put to waste, and those borrowed times to create these great memories. Ironic ain't it? It has always been the opposite. Seems like not all opposites attract. It's the main reason why the puzzle of us will never be completed; why we'll never get to publish our own romantic novel-- simply because it was written to be compared to a tragic short story.
But see to it that I'd look forward in seeing you soon. I told you I'd be fine, didn't I?
Well, I'm doing great.
I have given up.
You'll be okay.
I know you'll do good dancing on your own.
As for me, I'm great.
I will be okay.
.
.
I am OK.
To: A
From: A
