Sometimes, I wish I were as happy as you. Not because you’ve got all the fancy things that the world could ever have, but the mere fact that you have someone with you is amusingly reminiscent of me. The feeling of holding one’s arm, fingers touching fingers, smiles that are irreplaceable, the warmth of her body. Those things, they would just, flash once every idle moment. It’s unbearable.

There were times I thought it was easy to box yourself and think of love as if it were a crime. Apparently, what I’m doing right now is a form of crime. A crime which involves the murdering of my own soul: for being too apathetic and numb and callous-minded and all those grimy descriptions that a person could ever think of. I have surrounded myself with so much bitterness and sadness, in fact, blocked a huge part of my heart that is supposed to enjoy loving again.

Then, here she comes. Waiting for that one question that might change our lives forever. Is this me ready to love again? Or is it because of the society’s powerful pressures? Or maybe I have completely abolished every possible blockage hindering me to love her again. I don’t know. It still clouds me even during my deepest slumbers.