It's something that I wrote, inspired by my UNREQUITED LOOOOOOOOOVEEEE. Q.Q
Anyhow:
I can hear it, you know,” she said; as she looked out the window that gazed across the colourless grass field under the bright white sky, tinted with gray clouds around the place, “the mutters of rejection, thinking whether or not to slam its door in your face.”
I chuckled as I glanced at her and then at my book. She was always like this, spitting out negative ‘events’ that was never going to ever happen to her anyway.
“You know what I mean, right?” she asks,
“If I never did, I wouldn’t be thinking your remarks as amusing.” I said as I continued glancing at my book.
“But the thing is, everything is so simple. You do this, you do that, you get this!” She said, as she flailed her arms around. “And that’s what my life is doing to me. Telling me, ‘Hey, you did something, now have fun with what you get.’”
I chuckled again at her rant of life. She seriously does this ALL the time.
“And then I keep going through this life, but then I really don’t get what I want. I wish for it. No matter how much I do, I just can’t get it. I reach for it—nope, doesn’t work for me.” She says, as she makes some ‘slicing’ gestures with her hands. “You know what the lesson is? You work for what you want.”
“Mmhm.”
“It’s hard. You know that? Your whole life is a story, told by yourself. You’re the author. Your life is the book. You get that?”
“Mmhm.”
“I’d like a response that’s not horrendously plain like yours.” She exclaims, as she bats my arm.
“It’d help if you weren’t rambling on and on about you and your philosophies!”
“Okay, fair enough. I was rambling. But still, I want something instead of your ‘mmhms’ and chuckles.” She
says.
“If you are like this, why in the world were you brought up so negatively?” I say, putting my nose in my book again.
“Negatively? Hah! I wasn’t brought up like that! It’s my way of thinking that makes you think that I see the world as a negative place.” She cackles, “But as I said, you make your story and this is how I criticize my story. Hell, I wouldn’t mind calling it, “The Tale That Sucks”. It’d suit the purpose, wouldn’t it?”
“Why, yes it would, dear speaker of rambles and questions. Do tell me more.” I say, reading my book.
“Don’t go with the flow too much, buddy. It’s bad for your health.” She nags.
“I wouldn’t, if everything I heard from you was something that I find extremely disinteresting.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
One.
Two.
Three.
“You want anything from the cupboard?” She asks.
“No, not really, but thanks,” I say as I close my book. “You know I think I better be going home now, better do clean out my house before I move out, ya know?”
“Oh, okay. Bye.” She says, as she stares out the window again.
“I’ll see you sometime soon.”
Walk down the hallway, go into the elevator, wait, go out the elevator, walk out of the building and,
Breathe.
Don’t cry, champ. You worked so hard to get this far.
Stop crying.
She was right.
I was creating my story. I was the author. I was the one making it such a shitty story.
I could’ve told her, you know, that I loved her. The girl who knew me more than my other friends. I could’ve told her and my story could either say “And then they lived happily ever after” or a “To be continued…”. But my story is stuck in that one spot. There’s a hole in my story. It’s not complete. The butterflies of regret are clogging up my entire mind. I can go on, but I can’t go on. My story still goes on… with a hole in it. It bothers me.
I want to know, you know. If it’s not too late. I want to run to her and tell her,
“Hey! I love you! Maybe I can take you out some time?”
But of course. It is. It’s too late. She doesn’t love me. She never will. I don’t want to face the rejection from her. I think it’ll be too hard to take in… but you know, it’s much better than having this feeling of regret poking at your brain. But I can’t do it. Something is pulling me back.
A tear.
Another tear.
I told you to stop crying. Rub your eyes. Take a deep breathe. Walk forward. Keep walking. Walk. Walk. Walk.
Forget everything.
Move the hell on.
Maybe it’s not too late.
Maybe I can tell her my feelings. Maybe she’ll reconsider it!
No, no, no. It’ll never work.
You know, I hear it too.
Subject: Shomeshing Aboot Raife 
Sun Mar 04, 2012 8:02 am
