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.
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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.