She hates to think of nothing, to leave her mind not as busy as her body parts are, to have an empty space in her head for him to come and slip in like he always does. Him, the one she met by accident, the one she never plan of keeping, the one she always fail getting rid of, the one she hates because she loves. It is because she loves him she hates herself. Her, the one who sees him only from afar, the one who dreams of changing the world yet can barely change her own feelings, the one who wishes to be more daunting yet is too afraid of losing, despite the fact that he is something that she never owns.
It's early May, but why does it feel like late December?
It's probably because of me, love.
Why is that?
You're missing me.
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