I first saw you from a distance. Your eyes were scrutinizing the caliber of my craft. I saw you laughing, your giggles brought me paranoia. You were cocky and I hate you.
It was the night we first conversed. The way you picked and weaved your words together became music to my ears. I found out that we're both writers. It made me like you.
You showed me to your world, your "repressed" world. You unveiled your true self and I loved every bit of it. Your literary darlings, I treasured them. Underneath your manly tattoos I saw the gentle, fragile and the hopeless romantic you. It made me like you even more.
I showed you mine. The things that prowl behind my blinding mask, the skeletons and caskets I buried to oblivion were excavated before you. You met my friends, you loved them and they loved you back. There was no point in denying, I started to fall for you.
My love for you failed to conceal itself. You were witty. Your fancy theories and ways somehow found a way to divulge the secret I've been struggling to put out of sight. As my fingers shook constantly, my mouth began to utter a confession. "I'm falling for you". Your eyes, your face... they revealed none. You said you're confused. That somewhere deep in your heart you feel something yet your brain that relies on the norms tells you that it's wrong. fuck the norms!
"I am confused, I have a lot of questions yet one thing for me remains certain... I am happy with you"
I was scared; in fact I was beyond scare. Professing love towards someone who thinks that this certain kind of affection is forbidding frightened me. I was afraid... of losing you.
"Just promise me after this night, nothing will change."
Everything changed. My calls and messages were not returned. My mind was racing, thoughts of your absence tortured my soul. Up to this point in time, you remain hushed. What happened? Should I brace myself for a horrific end? Why can't it be the two of us? I -- I just hope you would let your heart feel what your eyes refuse to see.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction, the author's still trying to convince himself though.