It was the middle of fall. I remember the cold breeze caressing my body, the fallen leaves kissing my cheeks as it goes down. It’s yet again the nostalgic presence haunting me through the bones.
I went home feeling down partly because I didn’t liked my partner in that stupid ‘experiment’ (and I don’t like that experiment at all) but mostly because today should’ve been our anniversary - our 4th anniversary. Should have been. I hated myself for still remembering my ex. For seeing him with every man I laid eyes on.
I’ve never been the ‘liking’ type. I’ve always been the awkward little country girl whom you’ll find sitting on a corner of a coffee shop either reading a book or making scribbles while sipping a hot macchiato.
I was a believer of love. I used to believe in happy endings, fairy tales, and romance. But when someone stole my star, that’s when I realized that Disney is a serious bullshitter.
I was in pieces. And I left myself to be. Since he left, I never appreciated beauty the way I used to. Some people call me pessimist but I call myself realist.
I never really learned how to fix myself. I never learned how to move on. I never got over him. I’m not sure if I just don’t know how to or if I just believe that the only person who can mend the broken is the one who broke it.
