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honestly, being forgetful isn’t altogether that bad.
on the days that i forget to bring my textbooks, you’d be the first one to offer me yours.
let’s share, you’ll say. then, i would readily accept, secretly glad that i could have an excuse to sit next to you during history class.
on the days that i forget to bring my lunch money, you’d be the first to offer me yours.
but in the end, i’d decline (as the subject of money is something i’d rather avoid), and we’d settle on sharing your lunch box — which differed from day to day, but it didn’t really make a difference. after all, i was still sharing it with you.
on the days that i forget my self-worth, you’d be the first to remind me how important i was. to you, at least.
you are important to me, you’d say, and i’d feel the flush rising from my neck to my ears. you’d laugh and brush it off like it was nothing. sometimes, the effect you have on me scares me.
it really does.
till the point that i feel that i am more scared than forgetful these days. the fact that i will — almost inevitably — lose you one day scares me the most.
i forget as to why i started writing down the things i felt for you. it’s not like you’d read this and understand me. it’s frustrating.
but then, i’d look at you, and all my frustration would be forgotten. you would take up my attention, your eyes gazing at me teasingly, as if knowing the bizzare effect you had on me.
truthfully, being forgetful really isn’t all that bad. but to say as to how long it remains that way, i’m unsure.
