Holding on and letting go.

I am alone, and simultaneously not. For my pain isn’t new, it isn’t novel. Millions before have been through the exact same things, and millions after will,too. A pain as old as time itself. The balm in Gilead, of being strangely tied to some stranger halfway across the world because of shared suffering.
But I am hopelessly, hopelessly alone. The stranger across the world isn’t in my room at 2:56 am, watching me wither and weep, isn’t there to pull me into a comforting hug. No, its just me, and the million images of you in my head that play on and on like some customised movie designed for my own personal torture.
Because this hurt is deep. It’s personal. I could tell someone who would care just about enough to thrash the oft repeated words of how everything would be all right into my ears, and chances are that by some sadistic and miraculous twist of fate, I would, just for the fraction of a millisecond, let myself believe it.
But false hope is worse than absolute desolation, it is the haunting call of the siren, dragging you to your doom.
I’ve seen it all for myself. Even a blind man would hear it in your voice.
That look in your eyes when you look at her. I thought of a thousand ways to describe it,but I failed. Words have their bounds. And then my best friend told me, oh, so sadly. “It’s the same look you get when you look at him.”, and suddenly,no other description would ever fit.
The same look. The same radiant smile. The same touch, the same laughter. All on the face I’d been pining after, all the expressions I’d been longing to see. Oh, universe. You gave me what I asked for,you granted me my wish. You let me see what I’d been longing to. All of it, every little bit of it. Just reserved for the wrong person. (Be careful what you wish for.)
All as I watched. I watched the next great love story unfold, but I wasn’t the lead; I wasn’t the one cast with you. I was just a prop, a dispensable, minor character. I blossomed into being, hoping it would be enough, and wilted and withered as I realised it wasn’t.
But that’s the way life is. Bloomings and witherings. Meetings and partings. Paths converge and then diverge. Things meld and break apart. Hearts throb and break, and beat on. The little human walks on.
And I’ll do it. I’ll do it if it stops me from bleeding myself dry over someone who will never turn back and give me a second glance. If it stops my insides from cracking into jagged shards,razor sharp. I’ll do it.
(Even if it is delayed by a million backward glances and hopeful half-breaths and uneven heartbeats and the tears that sting my eyes like chilli powder.)
Because it isn’t worth it. Sacrificing yourself at the altar of unreciprocated love sounds so noble, resigning yourself to a lifetime of heartbreak and selfless devotion to one who will never know. Some of the greatest and most wept-over love stories hinge on this. And it’s all so beautiful to read, isn’t it? True love and undying devotion and all that.
Just ask the person on the other side of the pages how it feels.



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