Staccato.

6

I watched him as he carried the pot of water from the well, back home for his family. I saw him walk over to what seemed like a dressing table, looking at a broken shard of mirror, brushing off the dirt off his forehead. I watched him from the hill far away, looking through the nothing-window into his house lighted by candle lights, every wax that dripped down, landed on a small bucket he had prepared.

I remembered his sister, and how she died. And I realized, it wasn't just him. Every African child in his village has at least a deceased family member. And yet, it was only his sad eyes that could break my heart.

I watched him blow out the candles, one by one, and it felt like he was blowing out every single hope that we could ever be together. 

Because it was impossible. He was him, and I am me.

We don't even belong.

I can't ever stop loving someone I fell so deeply for, but I could try.

And that night, I fell asleep on the hill, a long road away from the volunteer crew camp. But it felt so peaceful there, just my thoughts and me.

I closed my eyes, and dreamt of darkness.