Aman Basra

Love promised honesty, promised you they would be clear of their feelings, no matter how unpleasant. Love promised but only ever lied because when things went astray, love picked up their bags without even a goodbye.

How do we know though? How do we know if the individual is worth keeping?

But that doesn’t mitigate the pain. Rationality is futile in heartache. I wonder what she would make of this, of watching him fall apart.

People choose what they want to see because it’s easier to see what they want. Even if you take the initiative to make them understand who you are, or your own understanding of self, do not expect them to simply compromise their bias.

It’s been a while since I last saw you and Facebook tells me your general life updates, but it doesn’t capture everything. It doesn’t tell me your true sentiments; it merely captures certain flashes of your life.

Maybe their interests become your own or maybe they don’t, but your love for them should give you the courage to want to be better and to be curious enough to always try.

All we are and all we will be is this — a beautiful mess of effort and resilience. We must keep moving and poking at life’s uncertainties. Do not hide.

And I don’t know exactly what my last words will be, or when life perishes. But I have some personal conviction that the greatest last words are three simple words — I love you.

You think it can’t be too late. A simple hello would be polite. Just a few words, just a few minutes, you tell yourself. A few minutes will not mask your guilt, but you tell yourself it will.

In your arms, watching you like this, I gained stability and clarity. In that moment, I discovered a certainty I never wanted to awake from.

Don’t smile. Overt emotion is overrated. Conceal and you have me intrigued. There’s mystery, maybe a game or a chase. Don’t show me, let me guess. Let me try and decipher the sentiments hidden in your gaze.

And maybe we are too impatient, or maybe this city lacks a sufficient amount of Starbucks, but sit-down encounters do not work for these types of stories. These stories have vividness and energy that can only be matched with movement.

Love isn’t supposed to hurt, not like this anyway. He isn’t a variable of pain; no, he is a constant assembly line of sorrow.

There’s some quote about leaving while the party is still running, before the dance ends. Defy that fallacy, please for me. Let the party keep running, let the dance ensue.

I miss the incongruity you bring, the excitement that comes on city nights with you. I miss the shenanigans, the escapades, the youthful bliss.

That is the beauty of second chances. Life is an infinite sum of restarts. Failure is not a dead road, failure is a disguised beginning.

Be your own inciting incident, be that girl Disney never writes about, that society never expects. Be the girl who provokes her own legends.

I want the certainty of my phone ringing, that anticipation of another human voice. I want the urgency of finding my phone and hastily saying hello.