Dear You,

Noah || Isabelle

Noah.

     Fuck you. Fuck you, your captivating words, and the mesmerizing phrases in ink sprawled across the papers you've written that never failed to steal my heart again and again. God, fucking fuck you for tearing my heartstrings and using the fresh blood from my wounds that you created as ink. There's nothing worse than reading the stories and letters you've written with my wretched blood, as if ink wasn't precious enough to you and what you wrote wouldn't have been effective with a red ink pen.

     Actually in a way, you're damn right.

      You played my heartstrings like they were those of a harp and it made such a ravishing euphony that I, infatuated by your melodious playing, couldn't help but let you play more songs that would soon lead to my end. You used these undeniably breathtaking songs to steal my heart and have it whisper my deepest, darkest secrets to you through the night. These whispered stories became your muse to create your own, just with a twist.

     How unfortunate, someone as creative and fortunate as you, to have nothing to write about. But no, because once you came across me, you had suddenly struck gold and I became your treasure that you'd keep around for another few months, maybe years. Well, until I ran out of secrets and stories to spill to you, that is.

     Noah, by the time you drained me of my blood, it was as if you created the Ark and the water has been replaced by a thick red liquid. You weren't saving animals. You were saving piles upon piles of paper of my happiness, heartbreak, and horror. Me. It was all me. Hell, if you were anything like the obedient man from the Bible.

    This whole time, you weren't focused on falling in love. That's some kid shit, yeah? The real grown-up stuff is heartbreak because we suffer a heart wrenching pain due to the void that once filled our lives. Oh, wait. You still are in possession of my heart and everything in it that had kept me from existing as just a mere being. Perhaps, because you have two hearts, the break will be twice the pain.

     Yeah, I know that's complete bullshit but let me pretend that it's real.

     You left as a rich man with stories to tell the world that was meant to be kept a secret. Go on, be the next big storyteller with your exquisite stories and handsome flaws. Feel free to steal the hearts of everyone who will touch your stories, but only to have their fingers permanently stained with red. My heart was used to ignite millions of other ones.

    And I, well, I'm still here. Existing. Feelings no longer live in my body or flow out of my mouth anymore, because all of my feelings have been ripped raw to bleed onto paper that will be touched by people who are in awe of your story. Whatever belonged to me is now yours. You didn't even ask for my goddamn permission. My name isn't even in your pathetic acknowledgements.

     But this story, this exact piece of paper that I'm writing on with my tears is mine. It might not sweep an entire population off of their feet, but it will sweep someone. They will empathize with me on the story of an enticing and witty boy who'd stolen both my heart and my secrets.

Hope you're having fun sailing in your bloody ship,
                  your 'dearest' Isabelle.