It was a long six months.
I could’ve snapped a little here and there, but the truth is I kept my faith that somehow you would give me a chance to love you. Even with every little thing you showed me (or more aptly, didn’t show me), I love you.
I already saw this coming but I still hoped for something that can illuminate the darkest sides of my heart, clinging on to the faintest speck of light I can find with my frail eyes. ‘Hope for the best, expect the worst,’ they say. Maybe I was a fool for believing you despite the odds.
But that’s what crazy people do, right? They do crazy things justifiable only to themselves. I rolled the dice, and apparently, I’ve lost. So much for taking chances.
One night, I thought of fortresses in relation to my waiting for you. Out of the rubble all my building and rebuilding has resulted, I could probably make another one, trying to defend myself from the inevitable pain that was to come. I knew it was coming and yet there was nothing to get myself prepared for it. I swear you’ve torn me apart, unconsciously, even effortlessly, as I struggled in mending my heart that was longing for you.
I could’ve hated you a lot. I know I could. But even so, I’d still choose to love you if I had the chance to tell you that.
But I won’t go do that. I’m weary, and I can rest based on the fact that I can recover from this. Maybe it’s not my right to tell you ‘don’t worry,’ because you will despite what I’ll tell you.
I’m sorry for putting you through all of this. And for one last time, I love you.
But most probably, I won’t be around to show and tell you that.