If you don’t know why you’re doing something, you ought to think about whether or not you should be doing it at all.
This is what I told him when he admitted to no longer knowing why he talks to me. It’s depressing and now I’m going to go watch sad movies and cry alone in my bed until I am very, very dehydrated.
You act happy but in such a disinterested way, what am I supposed to make of that?
M@’s smile is quite possibly the best thing ever and I’m pretty sure it annoys him when I poke his dimples but he’s never filed a legitimate complaint so oh well I can just pretend that he doesn’t mind my finger compressing the indents of his face
and I don’t know what to do.
There was a discussion about prairie dogs during morning lecture, so I spent a decent amount of time looking up cute pictures of bunnies (because they’re clearly relevant) and jokingly texted M@:
Ohmygod can we just go to pet stores and play with bunny rabbits
Later that evening he met me at the train station/underground metro thingie and we walked to a restaurant for dinner. As we waited to cross the street, he turned to me and said,
So I called a few pet stores nearby and found one that has bunnies.
His face when I told him I wasn’t serious about the pet store thing was the most darling though.
I just want him to fall in love with me so I can fall in love with him and prove to myself that love exists.
I was sitting in the passenger seat, he was driving me home. Not once did my eyes waver from the road when they normally spend almost the entirety of the car ride intent upon his profile. My listlessness made me despondent.
“Talk, say something,” he quietly urged.
But I only glanced his direction and smiled briefly.
He turned to me again, “I’m about to say goodbye to you and I don’t want to, so, please, because I just want to hear your voice.”
To the one who makes me almost as happy as I make myself,
I am very fond of the way the sun is reflected as golden fragments of light in your hair, and how even though we converse nightly and see each other weekly, it never feels like quite enough.
There are two ways of not being satisfied: The first is seeing you and not speaking of anything significant such that words might as well be meaningless, where meeting my gaze fleetingly and your fingertips lightly brushing my skin are our only interactions. The second is feeling that time together cannot be quantified and thus never collected to completion.
I am satisfied with the dissatisfaction of perpetually wanting more, because if anything were ever perfectly enough, everything would become stagnant and all the stars would implode and we would asphyxiate in our own eternal boredom.
Exclusively yours with the utmost sincerity,