My Story of You

Six people. As of the moment, that’s the strength of my story telling. I have only told my story of you to six people, and it’s something so unusual for a person as verbal and loud as me. But I’m not saying it’s something to be proud of. How can one be proud of falling in love and be not loved back? You don’t brag that one, you hide it. You conceal it from the world in tears and in pain. That’s basically the story of how only six people know my story. My story of you.

I just realized today that I don’t have that much to tell when it comes to my story. As my friend was recalling what she’d been through in her current relationship, that she had been to a lot of struggles with her boyfriend’s mother, how they got from being aloof to better, how she survived the phase with the girl from her boyfriend’s past and how she manages their fights till now, I listen in silence, pondering. When she could tell her stories in hours, I could always tell mine in two sentences: I cried over him. Why? Because I thought I found my man, but turns out, I thought wrong.

I never had the struggles with somebody’s mother nor the struggle with quarrels. Because those are usually for couples that last long. I think that when you get serious fights, it’s a sign that your relationship gets more serious. But I never got those. Because every time I try to tell my story of you, it usually ends in the third statement. You know why? Because it’s plain simple, in the first place.

1. I thought he loved me. 2. And when I tried to confess my feelings that had been nourished with assumptions, I find out I’m actually way, way out of his league. 3. And then I cry.

The end. No quarreling, no silly chasing over the road or over the phone, no other people of third-party nature involved. Just me and him and my story of him. Although it’s very ironic how my story of you is actually my story.

Me in my solitude, in my pain, in my tears and in my daydreams of us. My story of you rarely involves you in the scene because our paths rarely cross and our gazes rarely meet. The coincidences of us interacting seldom come. So in reality, my story of you is actually my story alone. It’s only me creating a picture of you to enter my story because that’s what I want, because I like you.

I want us to build a story: a story of how I hug you always and how you sing me your favorite song and finding out I have the same favorite song. A story that will be told by bards all over the world because ours is just great and genuine.

But like any other story, our story is fiction. In reality, our characters rarely meet. And in reality, we’re in two different stories. The only difference is that I borrowed your character to play a role in my story without you knowing it. So while I enjoy your made-up company in my story, I grieve over the reality that it’s not true.


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