This is not a love story. It's not a romance novel. We don’t fall in love. We don’t walk into the sunset with our fingers intertwined. Our love resembled delicate snowflakes falling into warm hands; it was beautiful for a split second before it melted too quickly.
If this was a love story then the story wouldn’t have to be written because there are a million books about love and how amazing it is when you feel your heart rapidly beating in your chest.
This is a story about the mascara ran down from her eyes in muted lines. It’s about how the snow wasn’t as beautiful as it was when he described it. It’s about how she couldn’t run to him any longer when her demons became livid and how he couldn’t protect her from everything like he once did before. It was how she thrust herself into boy’s arms only to see she was comparing them to him.
This is a story about how he couldn't wash her mascara off of his clothing because he just...couldn't no matter how long he stood in front of the washing machine. It’s about how he threw that damn shirt into the washing machine approximately thirty-seven times trying to get her perfume out of the thread. It's about how it tore him apart to see her smile falter when she realized he was looking. It was how he became reckless and tried to show himself that he could move on from her.
This story is about heartbreak at its purest and cleanest form. This story is not a love story.
YOU ARE READING
c o t t o n t - s h i r t s
Teen Fiction❝ Chemistry is you touching my arm and the simple touch setting fire to my mind . ❞ They say that when someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. It's as though honey drips off their tongue and their words become tangible things. Bu...
