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𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎—𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒏.
𝑼𝑵𝑫𝑶𝑼𝑩𝑻𝑬𝑫𝑳𝒀, 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒔.
Fools who surrendered to its allure, unaware of how deeply it could wound, how merciless it was in its cruelty.
It clung to the heart like a disease, feasting, festering, swelling, until finally becoming an ache that time never truly heals.
For love was a master manipulator, a ventriloquist pulling our strings while we, its marionettes, danced mindlessly to its whims.
We were reduced to mere vessels of hormones, driven to commit the most foolish acts or make heart-wrenching sacrifices all in the name of love.
And still, we celebrated it.
With grandiose celebrations, love was glorified, adorned in white gowns and grand altars, marked by the simple exchange of vows.
"I do," they would say, as if those two words could bind their lives and souls together in eternal bliss.
It was meant to be a joyous occasion; one filled with hope and promise.
So why, then, was I on the sidelines, crying?
Tears streamed from my bloodshot eyes, my chest heaving as I stifled my silent sobs with trembling hands.
I tried so desperately to contain myself, to quiet the storm inside that screamed at me to stand up, to shout, to object.
This union—their union—was a joyous celebration for everyone but me.
For me, it marked the end of an era.
I was drowning in sorrow, grieving the loss of a life I would never get to live.
It was a grief so crushing that it felt as though the ground beneath me had crumbled, threatening to pull me into an eternal abyss from which I could never escape.
But I should be happy for them.
I should be smiling and offering my congratulations, but the tears that soaked my cheeks told a different story.
They weren't tears of joy—they were the bitter remnants of a past that no longer existed.
Through my blurred vision, I watched them, their arms entwined, the perfect picture of a fated pair.
She stood beside him, radiant in her victory. She had won—not just his heart, but his future, his life.
