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In the irony of it all, you never believed in fate.
Out of all things you could deviate from, you chose the driving fuel of your universe. Society thrived on the reality of star-crossed lovers, determined by fate, and entrenched by destiny. It was written in the stars, a predestination determined at birth to materialise in tandem with our emotions.
However one chose to classify it, it was beyond anyone's control. Like cheeks flushing at a compliment, tears that pour with grief, and blood oozing from a papercut, all you could do was accept it. Those damn tally marks staining the delicate skin of your inner wrist, they were inevitable. That is, if you had the privilege of experiencing the ecstasy of love.
Blood red — a burning passion, excitement.
Rosy pink — comfort, a stability in knowing you've found someone who felt the same.
Black — nothing darker than unrequited love, right?
A fading scar that never fully disappears — it's fate, and fate took them away.
