Your memories fueled the wordsmith in me. The thought of you always coaxed my imagination into worlds left uncharted. You were that endpoint in all the possibilities I've written. My multiverses had a single common factor, and that was you. The paths my characters took, whether they run in parallel or meet at the crossroads of their lives, always led to the road towards you.
My conscience couldn't take breaking their hearts. Young, naïve lovers that didn't know how the world would change them. Jaded old lovers who someone steered toward the same direction as the other. Lost souls finding their purpose in this vast universe, only to find the answers with each other. I couldn't let my characters live through the same pain as I did. I always had to make them come home.
That was before. I oscillated between writing about hopelessness and hopefulness. A part of me remained sitting by the window sill, fervently praying for you to answer my questions once and for all. Longing spilled from the tip of my favorite pen; an unending masterpiece whose ink never ran dry. I invested in paper and pen because they reminded me of you—the other half of my writer's heart. I was caught halfway between living and surviving, letting the world spin on its axis while I slowly faded to history.
But that was before.
Years from the time I last saw you, I just woke up.
My head hung awkwardly between the backrest of my favorite seat and my shoulder. Light slowly filled my vision as I opened my eyes. The last vestiges of snow slowly melted under the piercing gaze of the sun. Birds chirped as they stood on the other side of my glass windows. The whiteness of the longest winter of my life began to fade, shades of life being hinted at the periphery of my vision. It was at that moment that I knew that our story finally ended.
Did it mean I forgot you already? Not exactly. You reminded me of that ray of sunlight peering through winter clouds on the first day of spring. You were the warmth that thawed my stormy heart.
You were—are—the love of my life.
Was I ever even yours?
I didn't hate you for choosing a different path for me. I couldn't hate myself for taking the road that led toward the opposite direction from yours. We reached the crossroad of that part of our life together, and we chose differently. We were meant to be the people we are right now. We bloomed where we were planted.
We made our choices, and this is the price we had to pay.
Yet, through all the accolades, I couldn't help but think, "Would all these be the same if I were with you?"
Like I said at the beginning, a writer's heart is a cornucopia of emotions. Happiness and sadness. Satisfaction and regret. Passion and apathy. Longing. Penance. My heart didn't recognize shades of gray when it came to you.
You were—are—the love of my life, until you weren't anymore.
