Love is such a complicated word, and this is why I find myself confused, drawing the lines between infatuation and lust and the dreaded four letter word. I wouldn’t know now, but it will be too risky to try.

I’m in love with this girl. I’ve been in love with this girl for as long as I can remember –

– and will never tell her.

This, according to her, came from a saint’s (human, nonetheless) letter, as told to her by a local pastor.

I remember watching a documentary in which indoctrination was blatantly demonstrated. Religious extremes, to say the least, are incredibly daunting.

And there I was, pretending to listen to my mother as she ranted about Armageddon.

When I tell her I’m agnostic I either die or get disowned.

This is the last message I write while I’m still in love with you.

Or maybe slightly out of it. I’ve stopped counting the days after all. There’s so much more for you to see when your eyes are opened a little more than usual.

I’ll be waiting for the day everything returns to normal – if ever that day ever comes.

Life goes on.

In my apathy, I felt peace. However, there was something missing in this solitude, something that made me feel incomplete, desolate.

The law of interaction states that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

Emphasis on the opposite.

I always thought that with every risk I took, there would be unfortunate consequences. For every word, an argument would ensue. Every shoulder leaned upon would disappear, leaving you falling.

Pessimism led me to let go of positive possibilities.

And then you came.

I learned to love again.

The what-ifs haunted him, as he mulled breaking the silence. At first, he wasn’t sure if he felt bad because he was guilty or if he just missed conversing with her.

Days seem to fly by faster this way, he thought.

And they did.

Days would turn to weeks. Weeks would eventually compose the months, the years, the lifetime they could have spent in each other’s embraces, chanting sweet nothings under the moonlit sky, breathing, sweating, living.

She never gave him the chance. The silence remained.

Why does one like me overanalyze, you ask. It’s because I’m looking at things rationally.

Like how you feel guilty even when things are supposedly OK.

Like when you keep referencing the past when I’m in the middle of moving on.

Like how I’m forced silent as I watch you two from afar, repeating what we promised would only be ours.

And yet, why do I keep coming back to you, when all I’m assured of is false hope?

You begin by posting an entry to your supposedly private blog, noting the time and day. This is day one.

Two:

The withdrawal symptoms will appear within less than three hours after you realize what you’ve done. Distract yourself at this point.

Three:

The first few days will be the hardest. Ignore urges by punishing yourself (operant conditioning has a purpose after all).

Four:

Keep yourself busy, until you forget that the initial distractions were distractions in the first place.

Five:

If the silence is broken, follow four, or act like four.

Six:

Relapse on day seven. Repeat one.

She lifts her head groggily, opens her eyes and sees the big red digits on her digital clock.

2:38 AM. Perfect.

“Hold on, wear this,” he goes, extending a blindfold. She’s perplexed, but nonetheless, wears it.

He drives somewhere only he knows. Her head is racing. Where is he bringing me?

He parks. She removes the blindfold.

Outside, she sees mountains of freshly picked flowers, trucks laden with roses and orchids unloading their contents at the city’s central distributor. The aroma is overwhelming.

“Pick the freshest ones.“

Now, he walks the same streets alone as she drives past his footsteps.

They used to sing the same tunes, sometimes off-key, sometimes in perfect melody.

Now, he only drowns in the sorrows of crackheads as she loops corporate pop songs.

They used to read poetry on aged paperbacks, highlighting memorable lines and recreating scenes.

Now, he only reads beer labels as she scrutinizes resumes and formulae.

They used to communicate in their own language, the sunrise greeting their tired eyes.

Now, he only tries forgetting. She barely remembers.

It wasn’t as surprising as I thought it would be. It wouldn’t be a number, not even a sentence written in some obscure language.

It wasn’t encrypted in some uncrackable scheme. It just was, displaying its contents to everybody who bothered to open the door to the cubicle and raise their heads for a few seconds after aiming.

Was I gullible enough to believe it?

Do you know how it feels to die? I didn’t either.

I found the secret of life in death.