Lost Star. [Revising]

Poems, words, and you.

"Tell me, Ailsa. Was it Edmund Spenser, Agrippa d'Aubigne, or simply Shakespeare who first made you fall in love with poems and words?" Asked Yuma.

"I fell in love with Shakespeare's delicate love tragedies. I admire Spenser's great writings of morality, I adore d'Aubigne's tragical, classic poems. But who made me fall in love? The world itself, Yuma. The world has its own way to write the script and set people on a stage. They turn words to people. Unlike people itself, they turn themselves to a poem. Funny, Yuma, we are all the characters of a theatrical show, and yet we still behave like we have no mask covering our faces."

Oh, how that passionate speech made Yuma falls more and more. She smiled, like she enjoyed life and its imperfections. Like she had never been hurt before. She narrowed her eyes to the sky, the blue horizon that blankets the earth from the infinite void of planets and galaxies.

"Would it make you happy if I tell you, I fell in love with words just after I met you?"

Ailsa stopped staring at the sky. She shifted her gaze to Yuma. She smiled, again, the different kind of smile. A broken smile that held an unrequited longing of someone she had always loved. And if only Yuma understands what lies beneath the smile. He wouldn't care, though. All he cared about was he didn't fail sketching the smile of his loved one, the one with the scattered soul, the one whose heart belonged to another man.

"And tell me, does it hurt you, knowing that I'm someone else's? Knowing that I belong to another man?" She couldn't hide it anymore. Godness. She failed masking her feelings.

Yuma answered, hesitantly, without any doubt,

"And? I don't care much that you're my friend's. All I do care about is I love you. Love has no ownership stamped on its label. Love is made to be free, not to suffocate. And I know, if I love you, I should not force you. I believe love would make its way to the ones that deserve it."

He breathe out the air left in his lungs, breaking his gaze. He is clearly hurt, but nobody could ever see it. See? Ailsa is true. We are just a character in a play. Act like you want to be portrayed as, and everyone would think of you like that. He drank the last sip of coffee and offers his hand to Ailsa, only to guide her out of the quiet cafe in the suburbs.