Our story didn't begin with grand confessions or poetic promises. It started with stolen glances and a smile that lingered too long. Simple yet profound.
But love isn't simple, is it?
Her laughter, beautiful as it was, began to haunt me.
It wasn't just for me.
It danced in the air between her and others, making me feel forgotten.
Anger brewed inside me.
"Why do you laugh with them like that?" I wanted to ask. "Why do your eyes meet theirs when I'm standing right here?"
But I never said it. I wrote instead, pouring my frustration into words she would never read.
If you do this again, I will stop writing for you, I vowed to myself.
But deep down, I knew that was a lie.
How could I stop writing when she was the only muse I had ever known?