TO THE GIRL WHO HAS YET TO FIND HER WAY BACK
It has been a long time since you last showed yourself.
It has been three hundred and twenty days since you told me that you have so much to explore outside the city.
I can never say that I have completely forgotten about you. I don't think I would ever be able to do that. You are like the rules my mom set when I was kid, Holly.
I will always have you inside my mind and heart even without anyone reminding me of you.
You are my drug, Holly.
And I have realized that I must have taken too much of you. I got too high, too dreamy that I lost myself in the process.
Know this, I am and I will be better once you have returned.
Not that I am expecting you to, but I will wait, not because I want you back but because I want to show you how much of the old me has evolved.
I am Leo and perhaps, a few years from now I can be Leonardo-the man who has conquered his sorrow and foolishness.
I am writing this for myself. This is a written proof that I have promised myself to move forward and heal.
I am writing this for myself to make my resolve stronger and more real than what my mind says.
Yes, I still cry but now, I have come to terms that it would not make things better.
A man crying is braver than a man who has fought a battle against the terrorists of the dry lands.
But a man knows when to stop crying and start living reality.
And I have reached the end of pitying myself.
I am standing up and I am going to take slow steps until I could say that I am totally over it.
I would not forget, I promise.
But I will be happy.
Now, I understand that I met you not because you are the happiness whom the gods have sent for me, but because you, my dearest Holiday, was meant to make realize that I could be a better man.
You were sent to make me realize that I could and would be happy.
I am a man who knows how and when to accept defeat.
And someday, I will be the man who has enough happiness to share with someone.
To Holly
Where are you?
From Leo.
YOU ARE READING
The Last Stroke
Short StoryEven objects feel hurt. Even objects snap. The only difference is that when they're broken, we throw them away. The Last Stroke is a work in progress. It is a collection, a dumpster of emotions.