You,

I can’t help but write. It’s starting again. All over again and I can’t help it. I am terrified. The sudden rush in adrenaline and the speed in every beat of my heart are once again relived. I thought it died so I buried it somewhere in my heart — a void deserted space for stuff I want to remember no more. 

I hid it there knowing it would remain unremembered until I’m completely healed from the bruises I got when I woke up to the fact that never would you ever have even a tiny chance to like me back. I let that idea flew away together with the depth of my emotional state towards you because I know that the possibility of you having to have the capacity to respond in my feelings are equivalent to the hiatus I feel inside me. But somehow, in the past few days, I’m feeling it again. That tiny little butterflies in my stomach whenever you’re around. That unfathomable joy I feel when you speak to me in such a way that I would never forget. The moment our eyes meet is like a lens that opens a different perspective— a view that is way to wonderful for bare eyes to see. The chill it gives me every time your skin touches mine. It makes me long for the touch I haven’t been able to feel for years now. A caress that my heart would be overwhelmed to contain.

I love the way you make me feel, but most of the time, I hate you for making me feel it this way. The felicity that you are giving me is the kind I want to have every single day of my existence. However, that certain pleasure is quite a constant reminder that I will never ever be able to hold you in my arms. And it hurts. It hurts me more than you think it is. More than anybody can think it would. It hurts to know that something can die without having the chance to live. Something called us. The love I have for you is one of the best feelings I ever had and no matter how much it hurts, I won’t deny the truth that I like the way it felt. I like the way it hurts me to love you this way. Perhaps, I will just keep this love locked inside the corners of my heart to keep it, to preserve it, to seal it. That way, when the time comes that you wake up realizing you feel the same way as I do, I’ll open the door again and welcome you. Til then, I’ll be hoping. I’ll be hurting. I’ll be waiting. 

Love,

Me