I picked up my diary, flipped through the pages, breathed heavily and finally I wrote what I felt;
You know, my dear diary, it is really over when you can talk about it without crying. The people we meet determine those we can love and those we can’t.
I met her through a friend and our friendship blossomed. It all began with a ‘hello, nice to meet you’ then the spark in her eyes and how she had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet. It was her ambitions that made me fall in love with her; who wouldn’t love a girl who can create words like an idol that feels so real, so powerful that you can touch it and think of it as real?
We played it so nonchalant pretending what we felt was just a result of how we intellectually liked each other but even if it was love, we knew we just couldn’t speak of it. In the evenings we would meet and talk about everything and anything holding a cup of tea in one hand and each other’s hand in the other so close that we each knew we felt a connection begging softly to be spoke of. But this sort of connection was always doomed to fail, doomed to die like a flower that cannot blossom but still hoped it would.
Then one day, she came to me crying. I just knew why she was crying and what was wrong. She looked into my eyes and begged me to love her, love her deeply till she could take it no more. But all what I was thinking of was he who I called a friend. What will he think of me, our friendship and about everything in between.
What about her? I held her hands and I felt that connection still. I belonged to her and she also belonged to me but strangely it felt we didn’t belong to each other. Then she put her head on my shoulders and cried, “I wished I had met you earlier. I wished I didn’t meet you through your friend.” We both knew this, we knew it very well but sometimes things happen the way they do. Then we departed.
Deep into my room, I paced everywhere, I touched the walls, switched off the lights and put it back on, picked up a pencil, a paper and wrote a poem stating how I loved her and threw it into the waste bin. I sat at every corner of the bed and wondered if it was best I loved her back like she wanted to do.
What should I do dear diary? What should I do? My life is now fucked up and I don’t know what to do. Why does love always have to be so tragic? Why? Why? Why? Sometimes the people which we meet determine the people we can love and those we can’t. Ethel, one day I hope I can be able to tell you that I love you without having to put it to calculations and permutations
MARK
You know, my dear diary, it is really over when you can talk about it without crying. The people we meet determine those we can love and those we can’t.
I met her through a friend and our friendship blossomed. It all began with a ‘hello, nice to meet you’ then the spark in her eyes and how she had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet. It was her ambitions that made me fall in love with her; who wouldn’t love a girl who can create words like an idol that feels so real, so powerful that you can touch it and think of it as real?
We played it so nonchalant pretending what we felt was just a result of how we intellectually liked each other but even if it was love, we knew we just couldn’t speak of it. In the evenings we would meet and talk about everything and anything holding a cup of tea in one hand and each other’s hand in the other so close that we each knew we felt a connection begging softly to be spoke of. But this sort of connection was always doomed to fail, doomed to die like a flower that cannot blossom but still hoped it would.
Then one day, she came to me crying. I just knew why she was crying and what was wrong. She looked into my eyes and begged me to love her, love her deeply till she could take it no more. But all what I was thinking of was he who I called a friend. What will he think of me, our friendship and about everything in between.
What about her? I held her hands and I felt that connection still. I belonged to her and she also belonged to me but strangely it felt we didn’t belong to each other. Then she put her head on my shoulders and cried, “I wished I had met you earlier. I wished I didn’t meet you through your friend.” We both knew this, we knew it very well but sometimes things happen the way they do. Then we departed.
Deep into my room, I paced everywhere, I touched the walls, switched off the lights and put it back on, picked up a pencil, a paper and wrote a poem stating how I loved her and threw it into the waste bin. I sat at every corner of the bed and wondered if it was best I loved her back like she wanted to do.
What should I do dear diary? What should I do? My life is now fucked up and I don’t know what to do. Why does love always have to be so tragic? Why? Why? Why? Sometimes the people which we meet determine the people we can love and those we can’t. Ethel, one day I hope I can be able to tell you that I love you without having to put it to calculations and permutations
MARK
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