“To the love that ended when it barely started.”
At the beginning of a newfound love, it doesn’t have to end so quickly without making a sound.
A love that’s supposed to be free and full of appreciation. The butterflies and rainbows surrounding our stomachs when we hear their name, the confusion that creeps in about our feelings, or when they bring the things we carry going home.
Home, they used to be one.
It turns out, we’re staying at the parking lot. There’s an empty space that they filled in because it’s more convenient and private. Only the two of you are aware of your relationship.
You don’t want anybody to know yet, because you’re hesitant if it will leave or go with you in the apartment.
But as you were ready to welcome that person, things started to be difficult.
The beginning of love connotes the lessons you were never ready to embrace.
You only want the bright side, the sweet momentary.
The prologue always gets us excited, we don’t even care what lies ahead of the chapters. Unsure of the plot twists and conflicts that will occur.
“You were always talking about the future, was I even there?”
They became a huge part of our everyday, the routine to wake up looking forward to the adventures and the dates and the photos you wish to keep; never letting it go.
Your friends and family are unaware that there is someone who makes you smile in ways they don’t know and the gifts you’ve received that you hide them in your room, are closest to your heart.
“The future is uncertain, but what hurts the most you stayed in the past.”
When everything starts to crumble, you push and pull each other; the only way you know how to save the both of you.
We were only just in the first chapter, and I bet the reader would be so confused about what went wrong and be frustrated about the decisions we made in this whirlwind kind of love.
And when it finished, the parking lot left a huge void.
You were the only one who knew the importance of that space that was once lit up. But now, it’s dim and cold, like the farewells that were never sincere.
Because you’re still grasping to rewrite everything; a second chance to fix the argument of errors and the grammatical choices.
But if fate is the one who separated both of you, what’s even the point of starting the story?
Maybe it’s just a draft.
It was actually not meant to be published.
Only the author would know how it reached the finale; hidden in the pile of drafts that were never continued or finished.
The author had hope that this time, the story would go through phases in different chapters — anticipating a happy ending.
It ended — a bittersweet short story, a catastrophic tragedy.
“I should’ve just paused it so I can go back.”
On the last page, the sentence didn’t end in a comma or a semi-colon.
It’s a period. Not even a question.
The end.
