Our story couldn't have been much different than how it turned out.
We were young,
And in love.

When you proposed to me,
I said "yes" in a heartbeat.
Why wouldn't i?
You were practically the most eligible bachelor in school,
With your good looks,
And a seemingly prosperous future.

It took me about an year to come to terms with my feelings for you.
Before that,
We had a namesake friendship.

My friends used to talk about you all the time.
About how charming you were,
How polite in approach.
They were all secretly envious of how you only had eyes for me.
How smitten you were with me.
I didn't realise it back then,
But it was more with the image of you my friends had created that I fell in love with.

When we were together,
I felt invincible.
In your company,
There was a joy unlike anything I had known.

We had our romantic escapades.
We went for strolls,
Walked hand in hand,
Were often lost in the other's eyes.
It was like any love story,
We took each other's breaths in,
Longing for any accidental touch.

You loved me,
You couldn't stress it enough,
And I believed it.
I believed it with every bone in my body.

Until one day you left me.

You didn't inform me of this new arrangement.
You'd rather I be left in dark.

After the seemingly endless anguish I went through,
I received a letter.

In the letter was a painting,
A painting of the years we had spent together.
But the colours you had painted them in were...unfamiliar.

It read how I took your focus off important things.
How I was the source of your incompetence.
How I made you less happy by the day.
How I had lost all that you had once loved about me.
How I had changed.
Changed irrevocably.
How you knew I'd never be enough.
How I was just an infatuation,
Nothing, Nothing more.