For me, it was love.
A cheerful teenage love, which could make my heart flutter as I feel my cheeks warmer. Perhaps for you, it was a torture. When you have to repeatedly give someone you don’t really love a gentle pat on her head, reassurance with kisses afterwards, and a shoulder for her to lean on. You were miserably tried to escape, aren’t you? While I’m trying to pour purest form of love into a hollow in your soul.
It was always love for me, despite you made me bleed and shatter my wounded heart—even deeper than anyone in my past did—it was always love through your pretending upward curved lips. Seeing from your point of view, perhaps it was another runaway place. Since your actual home, doesn’t feel as comfortable as usual.
It was love, for me. Perhaps for you, it felt like walking on a burning street whenever you have to held my hands publicly. I was a miserable piece whom consistently admit your wrongdoings, just because I fiercely yearning for you. I kept begging for your presence, but you would never consider to make simplest things happen.
Flowers you gave me, a while ago, are completely dried. I have seen it before. Flowers died, letters soaked, pictures blurred, memories gone by the time you completely realise. It was never love for you, whatever we had was a lustful decision, my existence brought you into an addiction.
