❝ 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘬. 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳. ❞
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.