On the Staircase

Before I started this draft, I asked myself , 'Shall this be on a boy who never fall in love?'

But what do I know about this boy? How am I so sure he never fall, not even once? Which reminds me of how he fell hard for someone, but it's just not me. 

It wasn't me, so I never thought he could love.

It was back in the old days, but now that I think of it, he was never numb. I was blinded  by my own obsession, I can't see it for the better. 

The small talks he ignited, but not for me
The gesture he shows, but no ticket for me 
The laughter heard, but not with me

When we share the thought of going back to each other, I thought it was something special. I placed my memories of you on a special box shaped like a heart. I kept them fondly and I thought it was love. I thought the shape resembles what we both got for each other. 

But my thought was merely a mirage of your love for someone else. It was all distorted into a fiction to satisfy myself. 

So when there is only one step distance between us, after all this time, I have prepared myself. 

That our eyes shall not met, or else I would fall
That my guts should not bet, despite my longing that calls 
That our boxes are probably on different shape, and your memories of me may consist of nothing at all

So the boy who never fall in love does not exist in this universe of mine. It was a misinterpretation of naïve and selfish girl. 

But now you have a writing of yourself, we can call you mine, the way you never were. 

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Probably an excerpt of my no-name-but-color character's diary.