Sweet Nothings

2 | Don't Fall In Love With A Writer

They warned him.

Don't fall in love with a writer; they never forget. Through oceans together or oceans apart, they never forget.

He obliviously shook his head, starry eyed at the sight of a whirlwind of auburn hair. It'd be silly, he thought, to lose reach of people deserving of a universe decorated with rose petals and stardust. If anything, he'd have to work for them, for the most elegant things are not easily captured.

And so, he did, encircling her with all that is beautiful. He'd act through rosy cheeks and side-eye glances, everything subtle yet precious in her eyes. He'd pass her simple gestures and she'd string them together with pretty words, his hands and lips and heartbeats caught between the lines. Come the time they'd lay at dawn, she'd hand him back lullabies, reminding him that though he was just a speck on earth, he was her favorite comet. And though the moon may set, and the sun will rise again in the morning, leaving her with only the memory of him, she'd never forget his light.

He'd replay their words in his mind. Don't fall in love with a writer; they never forget. He'd slightly furrow his eyebrows and ponder - how could one warn another of a love so beautiful, it could live forever through simple concoctions of 26 letters? He pitied them, figuring they'd never fathom a love like that, a girl like her; one which never forgot.

But soon enough, seasons passed, people changed, and eventually she loved him and she loved him and she loved him until she didn't. In her eyes, he might've been a comet, but he was only still a speck on earth, inevitably flawed and bound to make mistakes. And she was only still a girl, one flower surrounded by millions. Though she smelt sweet, he always found someone sweeter. Though he loved her, he didn't love her enough.

And this she never forget.

But how he wish she did. He found himself yearning for lullabies at the dead of night, taking in drops of auburn in everything he saw. What was worse, however, was that she was still a writer, and no amount of love could ever sum up to her love for words.

Instead of lullabies, her letters contorted into poisoned daggers, piercing him straight through his heart with every syllable. He'd feel guilt rushing through his veins whenever he'd breathe in her thoughts of him, praying that one day, in a different world, she'll leave it all in the past with a sense of mercy. But there was no use. And it was in that moment he realized, he shouldn't have fallen in love with her.

For she was a writer, and through oceans together or oceans apart, she never forgot.