I am human. I love, I hate, I laugh, I cry, I fear.
Yes, I fear.
Lying upon a tear-soaked pillow, I fear closing my eyes. Because when I do, I see him. I see him and his eyes, the eyes that used to glimmer with laughter at the sight of me. But now they are dark; they are the eyes of a stranger.
Why? Why do you look at me with those cold, cold eyes?
I watch as he slowly glides away, into the darkness, into the lands I can never reach.
Please, tell me what is wrong. Tell me what has changed since last week, when your eyes still sparkled with that beautiful grace of theirs.
I watch as he walks alongside another. His eyes glow, the way they used to glow around me.
Tell me what I have done wrong.
This is not a tale of young love. Or maybe it is. I don’t think I understand what love is anymore. Or perhaps I never did understand, and now it all makes sense to me.
Love is beautiful, so delicate and ephemeral; you blink once, at an inopportune moment, and it is gone, drifting away with the cold, winter wind, leaving behind only a shadow of what had once been so pure and lovely.
Yes, perhaps I loved him. Perhaps I loved him as a friend. But the more I loved, the more I lost. Because they always leave. My closest friends, my dearest paramours. They all slip through my fingers like a thousand darting minnows, taking with them a precious sliver of my aching heart. Perhaps it is because I am not beautiful. Perhaps it is because I am not the angel they are waiting for. But there is one thing I know: I am always the second choice.
They only come to me when they have no one left. Because I am always there. I am always ready with a box of tissues to dry their tears and a joke to lighten their hearts. I am always ready to absorb their sorrows and make them my own. Atlas may hold the world upon his shoulders, but I hold the weight of a thousand sorrows.
I watch as he disappears without a whisper. What is left of him is merely a dusky memory, already fading with the ages.
Perhaps he loved her. Perhaps the mere sight of me sickened him. But I just wish he had said something before he drifted away with the cold, winter wind.