We’re left with empty paper sheets where the next chapter of our almost never-ending story should have been written. We both ran out of ink— no refills, nothing left to give, no more.

It’s sad that we ended tragically, but what’s even more miserable is the thought that perhaps we are bound to write a whole new book in the arms of someone else.

If only we didn’t spill some ink, we could’ve still written some more.

Early on, you already knew
That for me, this is the worst way
To lose a person –
Clueless, oblivious,
Unaware.

Hey, don't go disappearing. ​
You swore you wouldn't.
But you left without a warning,
Just like everyone else
who didn't have the guts to explain.

Are we over?
You've been missing for days now.
I'm going to walk away.
Enough, I tell myself.
Enough, I repeat it all over again.

I'm no longer nurturing the flame.
It will take a single breath to blow it out.
I'm leaving.
I'm going.
After this, I'll be gone.

Hey, this is goodbye.
I guess.

People always leave. People are temporary. Even the person you love the most, will leave you on a Sunday morning. She'll kiss you goodbye, for the last time.

But you wouldn't know that it's the last. You won't.

When you look back, you'll reminisce how she lingered in those fleeting moments, right before she walked away. You'll remember where her hands touched you, where her lips rested on your skin. You'll remember every bit of it.

On terrible nights, you'll find yourself screaming. "How could you?" Of all the people in the world, I trusted that you would stay. Out of all the temporariness, all the flux, all the transience —you were supposed to be the only exception.

You think about calling them, then you'd be reminded that it's not your place anymore. You almost do, but something stops you. You remember these words you've read. It went something like —

People always leave. People are temporary. Even the person you love the most, will leave you on a Sunday morning. She'll kiss you goodbye, for the last time.

Maybe there is a universe where you do not break my heart. Maybe there is a universe where you didn't leave me feeling awful, feeling terrible. Maybe there is a universe where I didn't believe that I am hard to love, that I'm undeserving of love.

But maybe, just maybe, there is also a universe where someone will love me anyway. There is a universe where someone will see that my anxiety is not my entirety. There is a universe where someone will accept every bit of me. And wouldn't it be nice, if that universe is where we are at the moment. Maybe, maybe.

—apbq

And sometimes you lie down alone and wonder whether you actually meant as much to her as you thought you did.

You wonder whether she thinks of you when she can't sleep at night and miss you like the way you miss her.

You question the decisions you made; could you have done things differently to make them stay?

You get angry – furious even, that they could be so selfish and inconsiderate to accept your love when they likely had no intention of sticking around to reciprocate it.

You’re a mess. You’re a vortex of emotions that words can’t even describe and the worst part is, even though you want to tell them how they made you feel, you can’t.

And that makes you feel pathetic.

Trust me, I know how it feels.

just like how an artist
blends two opposing colors,
to create a breathtaking shade,
i carefully choose my words,
no matter how complex
or contradicting,
just to make you feel
important and loved.
please come back.
come back to me.
come home to me.
i feel empty.

There are pauses in between musical notes and stops between an artist's strokes and periods in between a writer's sentences. We have come to an end. We have come to a stop. But sometimes the only way to continue is to halt. The only way to begin is to end.

- apbq, pauses and stops