Circle of love

Part I

Part I- PEOPLE WHO DON'T DESERVE US

 I was awake until 3. I was thinking of him. And me. But not us. There is no us. He's clear about that. So am I. But he and I are something. And I don't know what we are. But we aren't us. There is no us. He's in my poetry and he's in my songs. I can't even be sure if I'm occasionally in his thoughts.

I was thinking about him while I hugged my pillow, wishing it was someone else. I did not dare to think of his arms around me. I thought of how I was the happiest when we spoke about nothing and everything. I thought of how humans were fundamentally flawed beings. I thought of how we always gave the best parts of ourselves to the people who don't deserve it.

"We're too similar to be in a relationship," he said.

We like different kinds of music, though. He has a playlist filled with old Hindi music and mine is filled with sad ballads about breakups that I haven't been a part of. He watches movies like he could inhale them, I read books like I couldn't survive without words in front of my eyes. Maybe we're both so lost in fiction that we fail to see reality even when it hits us right in our faces.

"See, we're so different! We couldn't possibly be together," he said.

We both love the stars though. We've spent endless hours wistfully wishing that we could have somehow touched the stars. We both find solace in Oreo milkshakes. We are the only two in the room laughing at how "nihilist" we are. We both push away people to save our hearts from breaking.

"When will you stop hiding things from me?" he accused.

What does he want me to say then? My heart bleeds when I try ignoring him. He's the reason I'm almost always wide awake and crying at 2 am. Should I tell him that my heart breaks a little every single time he smiles at me? Good things were never meant to last anyway.

"Tell me your secrets and I'll tell you mine," he coaxed gently.

I told him of the first boy I had ever loved. I told him of every failed relationship and heartbreak. I told him that I don't know how to love myself. He told me how he stayed up at night so he could avoid nightmares. How he filled the empty space in his head with strangers in his bed. Why, of all things, did he not tell me why I was never going to be good enough?

"It's not you, it's me," he lied.

I knew it was a damn lie, and God that hurt so much more. Because it wasn't me. And it wasn't him. It was time. And it was fate. It was so much more. But it wasn't him. And it wasn't me. And it was somehow everything and nothing.

"I'm in love with her," he confessed.

I hope she sees the stars in your eyes and the sunshine in your smile. I hope she thinks your rough edges are a piece of art. I hope she never has to lie awake at 3 am like me, wondering if she's good enough, wondering why humans are so inherently inhumane, that we give the best parts of ourselves to people who don't deserve them.