I like to believe that I will live throughout every single one of my chapters, written or have yet to be written. But I will forever be scared of the reality that maybe, somewhere, at some point; I will run out of ink and inspiration for a chapter. I’m scared that I may never make it to the end of the last paragraph, the last sentence or the last word.

I hope there will come a time when I will let someone into my life, who will help me write my story, where both ours will be a collision of different words that make up the human beings that we are. I promise that I will look past your flaws but deeper into why I picked up your book in the first place. I will be your lover and never the one who kills but the one who will mend you together when broken. To the first one who meets one’s end, promise me that you will write my remaining words, and I, promise you too to continue for you.

n.j.