Love Songs

When I was a kid, love songs were just that: songs.

They were nice, and listening to them was a really amazing feeling. They transported me to unreal but beautiful
situations.

I used to imagine that I was the main character in the stories that those love songs told.

I pictured myself finding my significant other and, just like those songs said, forgetting about every single bad thing in the world, only focusing on the excitement and happiness that this person made me feel.

I pictured a fairy tale. But, like I said before, they were just songs. They didn’t mean anything else than three minutes in heaven.

They didn’t mean anything, until they did. Until I met her.

We started as friends, and as time went by, she became my love song.

Because all of me loved all of her.

Because if I couldn’t have her, I didn’t want anybody else.

Because she was the one that I wanted.

Because I was in love with her and all her little things.

I couldn’t listen to any love song without picturing her as my significant other. Without picturing our little fairy tale.

But the problem about fairy tales is exactly that: they are just tales.

I loved her. She didn’t love me back. Time made her forget about me. But time doesn’t want me to forget her.

And while I’m here, writing my sorrows down on a sheet of paper, she’s out there, probably being loved by someone and loving them back. She’s out there living her life happily, and I’m here, regret filling my body, drowning me.