“So, why do you hide your real self from everyone?” She asked as we sat on the sidewalks just across the sea.
“What do you mean?” I inquired as I continued smoking. “The world sees you as this fabulous fuck-up, but why don’t you ever show them the person you are with me in these quiet moments of night?”
“I am just afraid that they won’t like what they see. It has happened before, and knowing me — it will happen again,” I plainly stated and burned out my cigarette.
“What do you mean?” she asked as the gushing sound of waves filled the surrounding. “If they like me for my honesty, then it soon becomes rudeness. If they like me for my caring, then it soon becomes possessiveness. If they like me for the sensitivity, then it soon becomes overwhelming for them. You get the rhythm?”
By now, I was licking my past wounds. Thinking about all the times when I became too much for someone who claimed to love. Thinking about all the times when my emotions became a burden. Thinking about all the times when the very thing that they found endearing became unbearable.
She didn’t say anything. She held my hand, and kept her head on my shoulders. She let out a hum. I let out a deep sigh.
Despite being bruised, we were desperately searching for love in the folds of life. As the dusk came closer, we were slowly realising that we will need love more than it will ever need us.