They always do.
Whether they’d leave tomorrow or the next day, they leave. No one cares enough about me more than I do. Heck, I sometimes want to leave myself if I could. I always roam around life, with a lot of masks, a lot of faces. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I don’t even recognise myself. They all say I’m afraid of commitment. But I’m really not.
I’m just afraid of being left behind.
Sometimes they have a reason why they do it. They make up stories how we could never work out, or that they found someone else. They’s be sweaty and fidgety when they tell me, trying to tell me that they had a great time. They’d try to make me feel better, telling me how beautiful my hair is, or how smart I am.
The worst are those who don’t explain. Everything is happy one day, and then suddenly they don’t have the balls to tell you it’s over. You just stare at your phone whole day, wishing it would come alive all of the sudden. You throw your phone across the room when it’s a spam text, or you don’t answer your mother’s calls because he might call.
But in the end you know, all of them will leave.
Until he came along.
At first I never wanted to believe he existed. But the more I pushed him away, the more he wanted to be with me. He made me believe in fairytales, the once I puked over when I was a little kid. There was something different about him, they way he said my name, they way he held my hand, the way he kissed me. I found myself getting annoyed of his texts, and he texted me all the time.
“I’m outside your window. Open up.”
But I don’t. I don’t let anyone in anymore.
He’d just wait outside my window, sometimes all through the night. Then I’d hear him talking to his mom, making him go home. He’d always leave a rose on the window sill, and it always smells better in the morning.
But one day, the roses stopped.
The texts stopped.
And when I was yearning for him for some reason, I found myself sitting in front of a gravestone.
Left alone, once again.
Fiction, originally written by yours truly.