I thought he give up on waiting for me sleeping on this hospital bed. The beeping sound of my heart, the antiseptic scent, the white robes; I thought he couldn't stand it.
I thought he couldn't stand my mom, who kept nagging him on my condition. She kept asking him about what happened, and whether he made me like this. In that moment, I swore I wanted to laugh so bad. I wanted to laugh in front of her, not worrying about whether it made her confused or mad. It was just so funny, how she thought it wasn't because of her; how all of this was actually because of my parents.
"Yoongi I miss writing," I said one day, when I was strong enough to sit back and breathe properly. "I miss writing with my own hands, not with the pads of my laptop. Not on the Times New Roman or Calibri fonts; my own fonts. My own strokes. My own words."
"What you typed are also your words," he said, "whether you like Times New Roman or even Impact, they are still your words. For me, it doesn't matter what kind of tools you use to write. It's about what you write," he looked at me and tapped my chest where my heart was, "it's about what your heart says about things."
That day, I realised I didn't fall for a perfect guy; I fell for a perfect wreck.
YOU ARE READING
Something Special
RandomEvery one has their own story; their own pain. But one was written so badly, she decided to end the story. Making one of her own, writing in her own, and living in her own. Until a man dares to change it.
