EVER OURS

CHAPTER 1

The clock was ticking, tic-tac, tic-tac, over and over again, unbearable. The brown-haired man was sitting behind his desk, his expressive eyes glued to his computer screen; the intense light was making his eyes sore from staring too long to the unfinished love letter he's in charge of writing this week. He hasn't been in the mood for writing this non-sense letter, but he has to. The fact is he can't understand the feelings he's trying to convey.

"Fuck," a low growl escaped his mouth. His jawline was tense as his thumb and index were rubbing the bridge of his nose. He had a headache.

The girl who came two days ago was as shy as a baby who goes to school for the very first time. Even if the guy she was talking about wasn't in the room, her face was bright red as a traffic light. She couldn't look at Mew's eyes while she kept stuttering the words that she wanted to transmit to her crush. And yeah, Mew could understand as a writer the feelings she was describing, but he couldn't feel it.

So how come he was a love-letter writer? Simple, he's a master of words.

But real-life emotions are more complex than words can express, so he conveys feelings into words in a way in which people engage with his narrative. It's not about him feeling the emotions but being able to put it into words, or so he thought.

When he had dated before, their lovers used to tell him that he was a good friend, but it wasn't the same as a lover. What went wrong? He repeatedly asked himself this after a break-up, deep down, he already knew. He hadn't felt the spark of love with his previous partners, but why? Was he cruel or hard-hearted? He didn't know.

And that was what was stopping him this time from writing this particular letter.

"I really can't," he whispered with a sense of disappointment in his voice. Why was it so hard to understand feelings for him? Was it because he hadn't experienced those before? Probably. It was bad enough that he couldn't write a letter, let alone occupying his mind wondering about his unsuccessful love life. 

"Am I cold-hearted?" He wasn't asking anyone in particular, just thinking to himself out loud. A laugh took him by surprise.

"Maybe you are." Mild replied with a smile on his lips. It was odd. Usually, his best friend would encourage him not to think badly of himself. 

"And why do you think that?" 

"Well, you already know the answer, dude. It's pretty cruel from you to hang out with your exes as if they hadn't been more than friends with you." 

And he was right. One of the things Mild dispises was Mew's inability to stay away from his exes. 

"Ai'Mew," Mild called him while taking a sit in front of him, "Have you ever consider that the problem is not you but the fact you haven't meet the right person?" 

No, he hadn't. He always thought of himself as the problem, but Mild already knew that. He was frowning to his keyboard, thinking hard about it. 

"Aye, don't make that kind of face. You know what people often say: you'll know true love when you find the right partner. So maybe you haven't found it yet." Mild declared with a big bright smile. 

Mew would probably ask himself this question in the privacy of his room when the lights were out —and he was reminiscing—,unable to fall asleep.

"The number of times I've ended a relationship is zero, none. Statistically speaking, if the number of break-ups is larger than the number of times I've ended things, then the problem lies within me and not others." Mild clicked his tongue, annoyed. Mew could be very frustrating.