I‘m writing this one with a building flu and a full-blown runny nose. It’s annoying how humid I feel all the time with this sickness. But what’s the pain compared to the pain of not being loved back. Worse, not being able to tell the person that I love him.
If one day I decided to end my life, it wasn’t anybody’s fault. It’s entirely mine. Because whenever I say his name like a funny thing, or everytime I fantasize about us or everytime I read his tweets, I am silently cutting my wrists – vertically; so that they won’t be able to stitch it up, like how someone other than me can never fix the mess I’ve made.
I want to fight for you but I will lose. I am willing to, but I am not yet ready.